The Cowboy's Return Page 7

  “Sure, boy, but I’m comfortable right here so say what you have to. Dorie,” he shouted to the waitress, “bring another beer.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not staying. I just wanted to talk to you about the lease you have with my dad.”

  Earl’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

  “I can’t find a copy. Do you have one?”

  “A copy.” Earl laughed. “Hell, boy, your dad and me did business the old-fashioned way—with our word.”

  “I can’t find any lease deposits either.”

  “I always pay cash.”

  “There aren’t any cash deposits.”

  Earl’s chair scraped against the wood floor as he pushed to his feet. Tall and slightly balding, Earl had a beer gut that hung over his belt. “Are you saying I’m not paying Grif?”

  “I’m saying I want to see some evidence.”

  “Everyone calm down,” Bert said.

  “Stay out of this, Bert,” Earl snapped and swung his gaze to Tripp. “A big rodeo star, huh? You think you can come in here and flex your muscle. That’s bullshit. This is Bramble not Vegas and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want to see.”

  The words were slurred and Tripp knew Earl had had too much to drink, but it didn’t stop him.

  “Get your cattle off my property.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Tripp nodded. “Fine. I’ll just round ’em up and sell ’em at the auction. I believe that’s on Wednesdays.” He leaned in closer. “You see, that’s what I learned in my rodeo days—how to round up cattle real good.” He turned and walked out.

  “You bastard. I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “Go ahead,” Tripp shouted over his shoulder.

  Inside his truck, he had to take a couple of deep breaths. He couldn’t go home. He was too wound up. As angry as he was, though, all he could see was Jilly’s hurt face.

  And Camila’s.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE GIRLS WERE in the living room eating popcorn and watching a Harry Potter movie that they had seen at least twice. Camila glanced in and saw them do a high five, bump their butts together and do a happy dance. Obviously they liked something in the movie. Jilly was smiling and happy again and that’s what mattered to Camila.

  She headed for the garage. She’d pulled the orders from the computer and printed the labels earlier. If everything went smoothly, she’d have them finished by midnight then she’d have plenty of time to take Jilly to her basketball game on Tuesday.

  A covered walkway connected the house to the detached two-car garage. Camila hurried to the storage shed where she stored the wrapped and labeled soap in plastic containers. In the early days, she’d made the soap at home so she didn’t have to leave Jilly. When Jilly had started school, she’d made it in the back room of the shop, but she still did a lot of the packing and mailing from home. That way, she was close if Jilly needed her.

  She worked on, trying not to think about the Danielses.

  Or Tripp.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE LAST ORDER PACKAGED, Camila stacked the boxes neatly on the table, then went into the house to check on the girls. She pulled her coat around herself. The temperature had been in the fifties and sixties all week—mild for February. Now it had to be in the forties. She was glad she’d lit Unie’s heater earlier. That way she knew she was warm. Since the gas company had turned off her gas, Unie had a hard time understanding it was now on again.

  Jilly and Kerri were asleep on the floor. Camila turned off the TV and gently woke them. “Time for bed.”

  They staggered to Jilly’s room in their big T-shirts and crawled into bed like zombies. They wouldn’t remember this in the morning. It reminded Camila of when Jilly was smaller and would fall asleep in the car or on the sofa. She’d never remembered anything. She’d been just a baby—and to Camila, she still was.

  She rushed back to the garage to finish up.

  “Camila.”

  She swung toward the voice, knocking over a stack of boxes.

  “I’m sorry,” Tripp said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, bending to gather the scattered boxes.

  Tripp didn’t answer. Instead, he squatted and helped. Their hands touched and fire shot up her arm. She jerked back. “Go away and leave us alone.” She stood and placed the boxes on the table.

  “We have to talk,” he said.

  “About what?” she asked, unable to keep her anger under control. “My past? My many affairs? My lurid lifestyle?”

  “You’re angry,” he said, unnecessarily.

  “Yes. I get angry when someone hurts my child.”

  “I’m sorry about that. When she showed up, I wasn’t sure what to do. But things were going really well. They were talking about Button, about school, then…”

  The sincerity in his voice got to her and some of the anger began to dissipate. Standing just inside the garage with the light behind him, he was a silhouette in a lined denim jacket, hat, snug jeans and cowboy boots. She’d seen him like this a million times in her dreams and in her foolish, girlish fantasies. But this wasn’t a dream or a fantasy. He was so real it took her breath away.

  “My parents have deteriorated since Patrick’s death. They don’t have any interests and it’s like they’re marking time. When Jilly showed up that first time, I was impressed with her spirit. She’s like a ray of sunshine. Actually, I think she has a halo around her head. That’s what gave me the nerve to come and see you. If Jilly could affect me that way, I was hoping she could do the same for my parents.”

  “You were nervous about seeing me?” She couldn’t quite believe that.

  “Yes, I mean, you have to have a lot of nerve to ask a woman who’s the father of her child. I apologize again for being so rude.”

  “If you had asked nicely, I would have told you. But you used a tone similar to several people in this town—as if I might not know who the father was.”

  He winced. “Was I that rude?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m usually not that inconsiderate. People have told me that I’m quite nice.”

  Oh, yes, he’d been nice and everything she’d ever dreamed about. But that dream had turned into a nightmare and…

  “Are these boxes to mail?” He looked at the boxes stacked on the table.

  “Ah…yes. I was going to load them in the Suburban.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No. I don’t need…” Her words fell on deaf ears. Tripp had already gathered several boxes and was strolling to the vehicle. She unlocked the back and he placed them inside.

  “Is that how you want them?”

  “Yes. That’s fine.”

  They worked side by side until all the orders were loaded.

  “What’s in these boxes?” Tripp asked.

  “Lye soap.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Camila wanted to laugh at his expression, but she hadn’t gotten to the point of laughing with Tripp.

  “You heard correctly. Lye soap, some of it scented with lavender, ginger, eucalyptus, rosemary—all natural fragrances. Some of it’s just plain and some is grated to use in the washing machine.”

  “My grandmother used to make lye soap, but she was never that adventurous.”

  “I learned from Mrs. Baker, but now I’ve perfected my own recipe. Of course, I also make other kinds.”

  “Like the almond and olive oil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you make soap at home, too?”

  “When Jilly was small I did, but now I make all my soaps at my shop. I package a lot here so I can be home with Jilly.”

  “Then it sells well?”

  “Yes. I have a Web site that details all my soaps and my quilts. The Internet has opened up a big market.”

  It seemed so odd talking to him standing in the moonlight. It was almost surreal. She didn’t even feel the chill of the evening. And she should. She didn’t need to get her e
motions centered on Tripp again. Not ever.

  “But I can make more on one quilt than I can on a week’s worth of soap. Homemade quilts are rare and people pay big money for them, but I offer them at a fair price.” Why was she telling him this? She’d gotten completely sidetracked. Distracted, was more like it.

  “My grandmother has some quilts stored away at the house. Maybe one day you’d like to see them.”

  The silence became awkward.

  “No,” she finally said. “I don’t want anything to do with the Daniels family.”

  “I understand, but I hope you’ll continue to let me see Jilly.”

  She pulled her coat around herself, suddenly feeling the chill. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want her hurt again. Your parents can say anything they want about me, but not about Jilly. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s only a result of the past.”

  “Once they realize she’s a part of Patrick they’ll…”

  Her gaze clashed with his. “Now you believe she’s Patrick’s?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure what happened back then and it really doesn’t matter. I’d like to get to know my niece…and you. If you’ll let me.”

  Was he for real? She had to take a breath and the coolness of the night rushed into her lungs. The decision she made now would be final for Jilly—and her.

  Say no. End it. Just say no.

  “What about your parents?” came out of her mouth.

  “It will take them a while to adjust, but eventually they’ll see what a sweet person she is.”

  He was telling the truth. She’d learned the hard way how to judge people and she knew he meant every word he was saying. Still, she hesitated.

  “Maybe you’ll let me take her out for a burger or something.”

  She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “As I said, I don’t think it’s a good idea, but once Jilly gets something in her head, it’s there to stay. If she wants to see you or her grandparents, I won’t stop her. But, please, I would prefer it if you left her alone without any pressure.”

  “I see.”

  The chill in the air dropped several degrees and Camila felt it all the way to her heart.

  He tipped his hat and walked to his truck

  She watched, almost in a stupor. She was doing the right thing.

  Or was she?

  Chapter Six

  Tripp drove home feeling as if things couldn’t get any worse. Camila was defensive and angry, and she had a right to be. Although for a brief minute, he could feel her softening, especially when she’d told him about her work. He’d respect her wishes and not pressure Jilly, but he wasn’t giving up either. He planned to work on his parents and soon they’d see Patrick in Jilly. Just like he did.

  He shifted his thoughts to Earl and wished he hadn’t lost his temper. He wasn’t apologizing, though. Earl was taking advantage of his father’s frailty and Tripp was putting a stop to it.

  As he reached the Lady Luck entrance, bright truck lights beamed his way. He kept waiting for the person driving to dim them, but instead the truck picked up speed and headed straight for him, forcing him into the ditch.

  Suddenly both doors were yanked opened and someone pulled him out into the grass, driving a fist into his stomach. He came up fighting and, after a brief punching match, he realized he was outnumbered. There had to be at least four men.

  Three men held him while another punched him, over and over. A hard blow to his jaw brought him to his knees. They released him and he fell flat on his face, prone in the grass. He didn’t get up, knowing there was no way he was going to win this fight.

  “Rodeo man, you’re not welcome in Bramble.” He heard the gruff voice, but he didn’t recognize it. A diesel engine roared away, backfiring a couple of times.

  Tripp rolled over, gulping air into his bruised lungs. He blinked up at the bright, cold moonlit night, feeling the dull throb in his head.

  He had to get up. He had to make it to the house.

  His bumper was behind him and he reached back, wincing, and pulled himself into a sitting position. Then, using the bumper, he shoved to his feet. He gulped in more air. His hat was in the grass, but no way was he bending down to pick it up. Moving carefully to the driver’s side, he managed to get in. Slowly, he drove to the house.

  By the time he parked in the garage, he had his second wind—and he was angry, angrier than he’d been in a long time. He stumbled into the kitchen.

  Morris turned from the stove. “Holy cow. You look like you’ve been whipped with a fence post and a few of the barbs were left on it.”

  Tripp collapsed into a chair. “I feel like that, too.”

  Morris filled a pan with warm water and brought it to the table. “Who did this to you?”

  “Not sure. Somebody ambushed me at the entrance.”

  Morris soaked a cloth then began to clean the blood from Tripp’s face. “Who’s got it in for you?”

  “I had a talk with Earl in town and I don’t think he liked what I said.”

  “Earl’s a tub of lard. He ain’t got the muscle to do this.”

  “I figure it’s some of the boys who work for him.”

  “Mm-mm-mm.” Morris clicked his tongue as he worked.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Your left jaw is turning blue and your eye is going to be black and it has a cut beneath it. I’ll get some antiseptic and tape.”

  Tripp didn’t think his ribs were cracked, just bruised. If Earl thought this was the end of it, he was badly mistaken.

  Morris came back and finished the job.

  “What do you know about Earl?” Tripp asked.

  “He’s bad—badder than a blue norther in the Panhandle in the dead of winter in a house without no heat and…”

  Tripp turned to stare at him, at least with his one good eye. He was having a normal conversation with Morris, without shouting, as when he was a kid and Morris would say things that didn’t make a lot of sense. But Tripp always liked to listen to him.

  “You old dog. You’ve been faking,” Tripp said. “There’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”

  Morris plopped into a chair, his face slightly red. “Damn, and I was doing so good. Seeing your battered face got me off my rhythm.”

  Tripp touched his swollen jaw. “Why would you pretend not to hear?”

  Morris shifted uneasily. “It started with the townsfolk asking questions, questions that were none of their business. If I said what repeatedly or gave some ass-backward answer, they’d leave me alone. Then you came home and I figured it would work really good. If you saw that I couldn’t hear, then you’d realize your parents needed help, needed you, and you’d stay for a while.”

  Ah, guilt, the little chip on his shoulder, the footprint on his conscience. Tripp couldn’t fault Morris for his motives or his concern, though. Morris had been a part of the family forever. He’d started working as a ranch hand before Tripp was born. He broke his leg one winter and Grif had brought him to the house to recuperate. A couple of months later, the housekeeper had quit and Morris had helped out with the cooking. He liked to cook.

  Leona had been pregnant at the time and as Morris’s leg had healed he’d helped out wherever he could. He also liked housework. Morris was an odd parody. It was a common sight to see Morris sitting and knitting, something he’d learned from his mother. He wore jeans, boots and a western shirt with an apron in the house, and drove Leona around in a Cadillac. Morris never did ranch work unless extra help was needed.

  “Don’t pull that on me again,” Tripp said. “And I don’t plan on going anywhere just yet.”

  Morris folded his hands on the table. “That’s mighty good to hear.” He looked at Tripp. “What was the Walker kid doing here?”

  “She came to meet her grandparents.”

  “Well, if that don’t knock me plumb off the fence.” Morris reached for the pan of water and carried it to the sink.
/>
  Tripp watched him, knowing Morris acted as dumb as a post, but he was as shrewd as a fox. “You know Jilly is Patrick’s daughter, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know nothin’.” Morris had his back to Tripp, pouring water down the drain.

  Tripp decided to go at it from another angle. “How often did Patrick bring Camila out here?”

  “Not often—just when your parents were away or you were home. Patrick wanted to impress her with his rodeo-star big brother.”

  Tripp winced, not from the pain of his battered face or his bruised ribs, but for not recognizing the signs—that Patrick had used him to impress Camila. Patrick had been eager to show Camila Tripp’s awards and trophies and he’d asked Tripp all kinds of questions about the rodeo in front of her. Tripp should have put a stop to it.

  Patrick had had low self-esteem and Tripp had known that. He’d also known Patrick had been in love with Camila, so he’d gone along with whatever Patrick had wanted, but Tripp had kept his distance from Camila. Sometimes that had been hard to do, especially when she’d asked questions about the rodeo. But when he’d noticed Patrick’s stormy face, he’d backed off immediately.

  Tripp had never understood why Patrick had kept drawing him into their relationship. Maybe because Camila had seemed more interested in Tripp than Patrick. He was glad his parents hadn’t allowed Camila at the ranch. That had kept the visits limited—only when Patrick could sneak her past his parents.

  That’s why it had been such a shock when Patrick had invited her to the graduation party.

  That damn graduation party. He should have kept his cool and left the teenagers to their own devices. But he couldn’t just let Camila fall to the floor. He still didn’t understand what had happened next. He wondered if he ever would. Camila didn’t seem like a tramp to him. She was a loving, caring mother—that was obvious to everyone. So what had happened that night?

  “Morris, when Camila was here, did you ever see them—mmm—together?”

  Morris wiped his hands on a towel. “Whada’ya mean? Doing the nasty?”

  Tripp met his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Patrick was like a lovesick pup over her, but she always seemed skittish, shy, except when you were here.”