Becky wiped her nose and, with the familiarity that comes from time and shared secrets, said, “Why can’t you just be like a servant?”

  “Because I know you too well, my Becky. And your papa.” The housekeeper shook her head. “Why did you slap Slocum? I know there must be some bad feelings, but you were just about to have to take Mr. McMahon as your husband. I think Slocum showing up is a very good thing, no?”

  Becky gave her nose a last wipe, then stuck the handkerchief down into her skirt pocket with a sharp, jabbing motion. She crossed the room and sat down at the desk, then lifted the napkin from the tray.

  “When are you going to learn to cook American?” she muttered.

  “You don’t like it, you should cook more often,” Tia Juanita said stubbornly, arms still crossed. “My cooking was good enough for your papa, and good enough for you for the past three years! And you are changing the subject.”

  The knife and fork in Becky’s hands sagged down to the desk top. “I don’t know why I did it, Tia Juanita. I mean, his showing up, just at that moment? It was like a . . . like a miracle or something.”

  Tia Juanita said nothing, but genuflected, an action that Becky, staring blankly at her plate of enchiladas, did not see. Tia Juanita had been praying for just such a thing without cease since the death of Jack Jamison. “So you strike him because he is sent from God?”

  Becky ignored her facetious tone. “It was just,” Becky continued, “that once I actually saw him I remembered the way he lit out last time, and . . . hell, I know that’s not reason enough. I know I should be grateful. I mean, he got rid of Roy Wheeler for us, didn’t he?”

  “And now, with God’s help, he will make Mr. McMahon go away,” replied Tia Juanita, adding gently, “and you always knew he would go, little one.”

  Becky turned in her chair and cocked her head. She had always been a sweet thing, one that Tia Juanita would have been proud to call her own daughter. That was, had Becky Sawyer Jamison possessed the sense to be born a Mexican, and not in some far-flung, foreign place called Massachusetts.

  At last, with a sniffle, Becky said, “Did you find out how . . . how he knew to come? How he knew I was in trouble?”

  “He did not know,” replied Tia Juanita. “He just came.” She did not add that she was certain Slocum had come directly because of her prayers. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned Slocum specifically, but then, the Lord worked in His own time and in His own way. She would not question it.

  She picked up the napkin and dropped it into Becky’s lap. “Now, cry the last of those tears and eat your dinner, little one. And then you will wash out your pretty eyes and come greet your guest in a more fitting manner.”

  Slocum leaned back and tossed his napkin on the table. It had been a good meal.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out his fixings pouch as he said, “So how come you figure this McMahon turned tail, Dave? Can’t see as how I outnumbered him. By much.”

  Pete snorted and Dave grinned.

  Dave said, “Well, I reckon they lit out for the same reason you been tellin’ us all them dandies has been callin’ you out.”

  Pete nodded. “Whatever rumor got them fellers goin’ is catchin’. Looks like we got it here, too. Least, that’s how I see it.”

  “Yup,” said Dave. “ ’Cept none of them fellers had the guts to try’n snooker you into skinnin’ that smokewagon.”

  Slocum licked his quirlie a last time and stuck it between his lips. “Wish I knew who the hell started this whole thing,” he said as he pulled out a lucifer and struck it into flame. “Like to pop him one upside the jaw,” he continued. “I mean, I’m sort’a used to some’a that shit, but this is too much. Gets on a feller’s nerves.”

  “Likely,” Pete interjected, “that rumor started out a whole lot different than what’s gettin’ passed around by this time.” With a thumb, he tamped his pipe. “It’s like that game we used to play when we was kids. You remember, Dave?”

  “I do,” Dave said, nodding. Dave and Pete had grown up together back in Kansas, as Slocum recalled. “The one where you got in a line and started whisperin’ down it?”

  Pete struck a match and nodded. “And what started out as ‘Bob’s got him a new pup’ ended up as—”

  “—‘A mad dog killed Bob with an axe,’ ” Slocum quipped, even though he didn’t feel much like laughing. He took a long drag on his smoke while Dave brayed and slapped his knee.

  Pete, chuckling, lit that old carved bulldog Meershaum of his.

  “Well,” said Pete, puffing smoke, “all’s I know is Tate McMahon’s two times as bad as your old friend Roy Wheeler ever was. And I, for one, was plumb glad to see him ridin’ out of here this morning.”

  “Amen,” said Dave.

  “Aw, you didn’t see nothin’, Dave,” muttered Pete.

  Grouchily, Dave replied, “Well, you know what I mean.”

  Suddenly, Slocum stood up.

  “What the hell you doin’, Slocum?” asked Dave.

  Slocum ignored him. “Afternoon, Becky,” he said carefully. He wasn’t about to coax her into flying off the handle again.

  The other two men belatedly scraped their chairs back and stood, also.

  “Miz Jamison, ma’am,” they said, as one.

  She waved them back down into their seats. Slocum remained on his feet, though.

  She looked beautiful, despite the fact that she’d obviously been crying. Her face was heart-shaped, her lips lush and naturally deep pink. Her eyes were huge, round, deep blue, and lushly fringed with sooty lashes. Fine, arched brows the color of smoke rode over them.

  She was of moderate height, with hair the color of sweet clover honey and skin like pale, tawny silk—skin that Slocum longed to touch. Firm, round breasts rode above a tiny waist which belled into round hips tapering into coltish legs.

  That was as he remembered.

  He found himself wanting to see those legs again in the worst way.

  Not to mention the rest of her.

  “Care to walk with me, Becky?” he asked.

  She crossed to the table and plucked his hat from its hook on the chair. She turned it over in her hands, studying it, then abruptly tossed it to him over Pete and Dave.

  They both ducked, but she paid them no mind and said, “I’d be pleased, Slocum.”

  6

  They walked out toward the main corral where several horses lazed, Concho among them. Slocum respected Becky’s silence and said nothing until they came to a stop beside the fence, between two towering cottonwood trees. Swishing flies, Concho began to lazily wander over.

  Slocum placed a hand on each of Becky’s shoulders, sighed deeply, and said, “What the hell’s goin’ on, darlin’?”

  She looked at the ground, and Slocum half-expected her to dig her toe into the ground. She didn’t though. She said, “I’m sorry, Slocum. For hitting you, I mean. It’s just . . . just . . .”

  And then suddenly she moved forward, threw her arms around his waist, and began to sob: big, deep, heaving sobs that seemed to well up from her toes and gain strength as they moved up and out.

  Slocum, at a loss, simply held her.

  She clung to him for a good five minutes, until she seemed to be all cried out, and then she started to hiccup.

  Holding back a smile, he reached into his pocket and brought out a fresh bandana, which he wedged between her moist, jolting face and his chest.

  “Here,” he said softly. “Dry those eyes and blow your nose.”

  She obeyed, letting out a most unladylike honk. This time, he couldn’t help but let his mouth quirk up just a little. Such a big snort to come from such a little gal!

  She looked up, hiccuping and blushing, and smiling just a little. “Never was especially ladylike, I’m afraid,” she said.

  “But you always were all woman,” he replied, and taking the bandana, wiped away a tear she had missed. “You ready to talk yet? Or would you rather take another swing at me?”

  When Becky cringed with embarrassment, he added, “Hey, I’m a strappin’ fella, honey. I think I can handle it.”

  She turned away and braced herself, her elbows splayed on the top rail of the corral fence, the shade from the cottonwoods dappling her shoulders. “I may take you up on that later,” she said softly. He couldn’t see her face.

  “What is it, Becky? And why is that Tate McMahon buying up everything in sight? Roy Wheeler, I could figure. He kicked those families off. Wanted the rangeland. But McMahon?” He scratched the back of his head. “Dave and Pete tell me he’s not doing a damned thing with those properties, even rents ’em back to the families he stole them off of.” He snorted. “I don’t get it.”

  She turned to face him. “I don’t either. It doesn’t make any sense. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still trying to own this whole valley. I’m the last holdout, Slocum. I’m sure he had Jack murdered because he wouldn’t sell. And when it turned out that I wouldn’t, either, well . . . you saw what he was up to today. I’ve been expecting it. Just not so soon, that’s all.”

  She paused, then added more softly, “They told you about Jack, didn’t they?”

  Slocum nodded. “They did. I’m right sorry for your loss, Becky. I recall meeting him. He was a fine man.”

  He didn’t add that he thought Jack Jamison was far too old for a young gal in her prime, even if the sonofabitch washed his neck and knew his table manners. She likely didn’t want to hear it.

  Besides, it was none of his business.

  “Yes,” she said. “He was. He was a very good man.”

  She paused again, but when she spoke anew, it wasn’t about Jack Jamison. “Why did you come?” she asked.

  What could he tell her? That he’d been riding along aimlessly and remembered her as a nice, convenient piece of tail? Hell, that wouldn’t do at all!

  So he said, “I was close—just down to Bedrock—and thought I’d stop in to pay my respects, that’s all. See how you were doing.” He shrugged. “Comin’ in when I did, well, that was just dumb luck. Lucky for you, anyhow.”

  With his thumb, he raised her chin until she was looking into his eyes. He smiled down at her. “I’d have hated to show up and find out you’d been wed not once, but twice since I last saw you.” The smile faded. “Besides, it’d pain me something terrible to have to put your new bridegroom in jail.”

  “You think he’s up to something, too, don’t you, Slocum? I mean something more than it looks like.” She blinked, fluttering long, sooty lashes over tear-stained eyes. “And you’re going to do something about it?”

  “Oh, I think he’s definitely up to somethin’ real rotten, honey. Somethin’ besides tryin’ to steal all the land around Indian Springs and railroad you into a wedding, I mean. As if that wasn’t bad enough.” He smiled again, and when she returned it, he brushed a kiss over her forehead.

  “And yes,” he added softly, “I’m gonna do something about it.”

  Hell, he figured he was sort of stuck with doing something about it, now!

  “Thank you, Slocum,” Becky whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Don’t thank me, honey,” he said, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Yes, you have. You came. And you were so . . . so nice about poor Jack.” She sniffed again, and tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

  “Suck those tears back in, gal,” he said. “I told you, I just came because I was passin’ this way. And I have no right to get upset ’cause you married Jack Jamison. I think . . . I think you made a good match,” he added, lying through his teeth.

  That did it. She launched into a new wave of tears.

  Slocum could do nothing but hold her.

  Dave and Pete vied for a place at the front window.

  “There!” hissed Dave. “Is he kissin’ her?”

  Pete elbowed him out of the way. “No, you piece’a cow dung. Only her forehead.”

  “Well, hell!” exclaimed Dave, rubbing his rib cage. “That counts, don’t it?”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Not hardly.”

  Tia Juanita, who had been standing in the kitchen doorway, rolled her eyes.

  “Enough!” she announced, stepping forward. She took both cowhands, each by an arm, and led them back into the depths of the house and away from the window.

  “For shame,” she said, shaking her finger at them. “Grown men, spying like children.”

  Pete, at least, had the good sense to look embarrassed. “We were just seein’ whether it was safe to go outside yet,” he said. “We didn’t want to bother ’em. You know, in case they had something goin’ on like last time.”

  “Sit,” Tia Juanita demanded, pointing to two chairs.

  “On the parlor furniture?” Dave asked, both eyebrows hiked.

  “Sit,” repeated Tia Juanita. And when both men had taken careful seats on the edges of the parlor chairs, she announced, “I will tell you when you can go back outside.”

  She took up their vacated post at the window, and smiling softly, once again crossed herself. It was a godsend to have a real honest-to-goodness man on the place once again.

  Especially when that man was Slocum.

  Tate McMahon let himself into his office in town and slumped down in the chair behind the desk. He tossed his hat toward the rack, but it hit the wall instead, and slid to the floor.

  “Goddamn it,” he grumbled, and then picked up a book and threw it just as hard as he could. It banged off the wall with a resounding, if not comforting, thump.

  Why had this had to happen, today of all days?

  Where in the hell had this Slocum character come from?

  Oh, he’d been regaled with more than enough Slocum stories on the ride back to town, once his crew had gotten over their cowardice enough to start in jabbering.

  His crew. That was a laugh! He ought to fire them all and start over, stock the place with shootists and quick-draw artists and men who knew how to do more than threaten a few cow-poor ranchers, that’s what he should do.

  On the way back from the S Bar J, he’d heard the story about Slocum and the Confederate camp, Slocum and the taking of Red Morgan, and Slocum taking those crooked mining magnates up in the Dakotas. He didn’t mind admitting that that story in particular had given him some pause, until he realized that Cliff Tobin had it on the good word of his cousin who heard it from his brother-in-law, who’d heard it from a fellow who’s uncle had been there.

  Hmph.

  All the stories—those and the dozen others he’d been told in the last hour—were like that. Nobody had ever seen this Slocum do anything, at least, not personally. They just all knew stories passed down third- or fourth-hand.

  Stories that had likely grown quite a bit in the telling and retelling.

  Oh, he figured that Slocum must have done something, all right. For one thing, he had it on good authority that Slocum had been the fellow who put Roy Wheeler in prison.

  He owed Slocum for that, in some sort of lopsided way, he supposed.

  But Wheeler had been a stupid fool, and McMahon surely hadn’t asked Slocum to come down on Wheeler. That was before McMahon’s time in Indian Springs, and Slocum had taken care of Wheeler all by himself. In fact, insofar as McMahon knew, the only thing that Slocum had ever done for certain was to put Roy Wheeler in prison.

  Why? McMahon had no idea. And frankly, he didn’t care. He was a man set on the future, not the past, and the future had suddenly gotten a hell of a lot more complicated.

  He drummed his fingers on the desktop, and it echoed through the empty office. It was Sunday, and he was the only person in the place. Not that there was anyone there—besides Siddons, that was—the rest of the time.

  McMahon had made it his business to keep the true nature of what he did—and what he had planned—a secret, even from Siddons.

  Siddons didn’t seem to mind. She just seemed happy to have the work, which consisted mostly of light filing, a few letters to write and mail—she did have very nice handwriting, he’d say that for her—and running his personal errands.

  He had the feeling that if Siddons had known what he was up to with Mrs. Becky Jamison, she would not have been quite so happy in her work. He figured that Siddons had a bit of a secret crush on him. At least, she thought it was secret.

  But he’d seen her fluttering her eyelashes and swashing that big, fat ass of hers, and he’d noticed the way she poked her gigantic bosom in his face whenever possible.

  But all in all, the charms of an overfed heifer of a secretary faded away to less than nothing in comparison to those of Becky Jamison. Especially when you took Becky’s land holdings into account.

  Damn that Slocum anyway!

  He supposed he should send some wires. He’d been thinking about it all the way in from the S Bar J. Well, once he’d tuned the noise from those gossiping hands out of his head. He’d send for Drug Cassidy, that’s what he’d do.

  Then they’d all see just how long this trumped-up mankiller of a Slocum character lasted, he thought with a snort.

  He pulled out pen and paper and began to compose a brief telegram, then paused.

  Perhaps he’d best send for two, he decided. Maybe that Teddy LeGrande fellow. He was supposed to be awfully good. And fast. Almost as fast as Drug Cassidy, they said. LeGrande headquartered in Santa Fe, didn’t he?

  One nice thing about hiring outsiders, particularly hired guns: they did their job, you gave them money, and then they went away for good. Just like when he’d had Jack Jamison killed. He’d never hear from that old boy—or his killer—again, he thought, and then he laughed out loud.

  He composed a second telegram, snatched up his hat, and let himself out of his office. He was actually whistling by then, thinking about what a nice little surprise Slocum was going to have coming.

  The nerve of that sonofabitch saddle tramp!

  Nobody broke up his wedding day and lived to crow about it!

  7