“You could get killed in one of those foreign places,” her father said shortly. “I won’t let you.”
“I’m twenty-two,” she reminded him with a grin. “You can’t stop me.”
He sighed angrily. “Who’ll cook and keep house and—”
“You can hire somebody.”
“Sure.” Her father laughed.
That brought home the true situation, and she felt instantly regretful that she’d brought it up. “I won’t go right away,” she promised. “And don’t worry, things will get better.”
“Pray for rain,” Brandon suggested between bites. “Everybody else is. I’ve never seen so many ranchers in church.”
“I’ve seen prayers work miracles,” Ben remarked, and launched into some tales that kept Pepi’s mind off C.C.
After they’d finished off half of Pepi’s apple pie, Brandon went out with her father to check the sick bull. “I don’t usually do night work when I can get out of it,” Brandon told Pepi. “But for an apple pie like that, I’d come out to deliver a calf at three in the morning.”
“I’ll remember that,” she said pertly, grinning.
“You’re cute,” he said. “I mean that. You’re really cute, and if you ever want to propose matrimony, just go ahead. I won’t even play hard to get.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep you in mind, along with my other dozen suitors,” she said lightly.
“How about a movie Friday night? We’ll run over to El Paso and eat supper before we go to the theater.”
“Terrific,” she agreed. He was loads of fun and she needed to get away.
“I won’t get back until midnight, I guess,” her father called out. “After we check that bull down at the Berry place, I want to look over Berry’s books before the tax man gets them. Don’t wait up.”
“Okay. Have fun,” she called back. It was a joke between them, because Jack Berry kept books that would have confounded a lawyer. It was almost estimated tax time, and Jack was the ranch’s only bookkeeper. They should have hired somebody more qualified, but Jack was elderly and couldn’t do outside work. Her father had a soft heart. Rather than see the old man on welfare, Ben had hired him to keep the books. Which meant, unfortunately, that Ben had to do most of the figuring over again at tax time. His soft heart was one reason the ranch was in the hole. He didn’t really have a business head like his own father had possessed. Without C.C.’s subtle guidance, the ranch would have gone on the auction block three years ago. It still might.
C.C. She frowned, turning toward the back door. She was worried about him. He hadn’t seemed too drunk when she’d gone to check on him earlier, and that was unusual. His yearly binges were formidable. She’d better give him another look, before her father thought to check him out at midnight.
The bunkhouse was filling up. There were three men in it, now, the newest temporary hands. But C.C. wasn’t there.
“He was pretty tight-lipped about where he was going, Miss Mathews,” one of the men volunteered. “But I’d guess he was headed into Juárez from the direction he took.”
“Oh, boy,” she sighed. “Did he take the pickup or his own car?”
“His own car—that old Ford.”
“Thanks.”
It was a good thing she drove, she thought angrily. One of these days she’d be gone, and who’d take care of that wild-eyed cowboy then? The thought depressed her. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding somebody to do that, not with his looks. And there was always Edie.
She turned off on the road that led to the border. The official at the border remembered the big white Ford—there hadn’t been a lot of traffic across, since it was a weekday night. She thanked him, went across and drove around until she found the white Ford parked with characteristic haphazardness in a parking space. She pulled in beside it and got out.
Fortunately she hadn’t taken time to change. She was wearing jeans and a checked shirt with a pullover sweater and boots, just the outfit for walking around at night. She was a little nervous because she didn’t like going places alone after dark. Especially the kind of place she was sure C.C. was going to be in. Too, she was worried in case her father came home and needed to ask her anything. Her closed bedroom door might fool him into thinking she was just asleep, but if he saw the pickup missing, he might get suspicious. She didn’t want him to fire C.C. He liked the man, but if C.C. didn’t tell him why he was drinking—and C.C. wouldn’t—then her father was very likely to let him go anyway.
There was a bar not a block away from where she parked. She had a feeling that C.C. was in it, but when she looked inside, there were mostly Mexican men and only one or two young Americans. She walked the streets, peeking into bars, and almost got picked up once. Finally, miserable and worried, she turned and started back to the truck. On the way, she glanced into that first bar again—and there he was, leaning back in a chair at a corner table.
She walked in and went back to the corner table.
“Oh…” C.C. let out a word that he normally wouldn’t have. He was cold and dangerous looking now, not the easily handled man of a few hours ago. She knew that her old tactics wouldn’t work this time.
“Hi,” she said gently.
“If you’re here to drag me back, forget it,” he drawled, glaring at her from bloodshot eyes. There was a half-empty tequila bottle on the table and an empty glass beside it. “I won’t go.”
“It’s hot in here,” she remarked, feeling her way. “Some air might help you.”
He laughed drunkenly. “Think so? Suppose I pass out, tomboy. Will you throw me over your shoulder and carry me home?”
That hurt. He made her out to be some female Amazon. Perhaps that was how he thought of her—as just one of the boys. But she smiled. “I might try,” she agreed.
He studied her with disinterested brevity. “Still in jeans. Always wearing something manly. Do you have legs, tomboy? Do you even have breasts—?”
“I’ll bet you can’t walk to the car by yourself,” she cut him off, trying not to blush, because his voice carried and one or two of the patrons were openly staring their way.
He stopped what he was saying to scowl at her. “The hell I can’t,” he replied belligerently.
“Prove it,” she challenged. “Let’s see you get there without falling flat on your face.”
He muttered something rough and got to his feet, swaying a little. He took out a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it onto the bar, his hat cocked arrogantly over one eye, his tall, lithe body slightly stooped. “Keep the change,” he told the man.
Pepi congratulated herself silently on her strategy as he weaved out onto the street. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead hesitantly.
“Hot,” he murmured. He shook his head, his breath coming hard and heavy. He turned to look at Pepi, frowning slightly. “I thought we were going for a walk.”
“Sure,” she said.
“Come here, then, sweet girl,” he coaxed, holding out his arm. “I can’t let you get lost, can I?”
It was the liquor talking, and she knew it. But it was so sweet to have his arm around her shoulder, his head bent to hers, his breath against her forehead. Even the scent of