Patricia Rosemoor: Heart Of A Lawman

Instead, Felice Cuma, his father’s housekeeper of nearly thirty years, flew out the front door, called the dogs and ordered them back to the barn. A smile of welcome flared fine lines around her dark eyes and full mouth. She had passed sixty, but Bart thought Felice was still a fine figure of a woman and couldn’t imagine why she wasted her life keeping someone else’s home when he was certain she could make one with a man of her own.

Lighting on Daniel as he unfolded all six feet of himself from the front passenger seat, Felice’s eyes went wide. “Chico, you’re a man now!”

Daniel grinned at Felice and rushed forward so they could give each other a big hug.

Arms folded across her chest, Lainey straggled behind. No smile loosened the tight grip that held her mouth in a flat line. Felice stepped out of Daniel’s bear hug and stared at the girl, her hand going to her throat as if she’d just been struck speechless. And her dark eyes suddenly went luminous, Bart noted, as if she were holding back tears.

“Ah, chica,” Felice finally said, her voice trembling, “you’ve grown so beautiful. You look exactly like your sainted mama.”

Lainey softened a little and allowed a hug, if not with her brother’s open enthusiasm. Expression concerned, Felice sought Bart’s gaze over his daughter’s head. He shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Hey, Felice,” he said with affection.

“Mr. Bart. It’s good to see you. You’ve stayed away far too long.”

He knew Felice meant more than the last year and a half. That’s how long it had been since he’d stepped foot on Curly-Q land—since well before Sara died. They’d driven their kids to the ranch for a visit every summer. Bart had sometimes stayed the night, but he’d always gone off on his own—usually back to Albuquerque where he buried himself in work—and then had to come back weeks later for the three of them.

Sara really had been a saint, Bart thought, considering she’d been able to deal with the old tyrant for weeks at a time, while Bart had trouble tolerating his own father for a day. Amazingly enough, the old man had treated his grandkids with far more respect than he ever had his own sons when they were growing up—maybe he’d learned something from his past mistakes, Bart hoped—and so both Daniel and Lainey had always looked forward to their visits to the Curly-Q.

Good thing, or Bart never would have agreed to the deal.

“Daniel, Lainey—how about getting your bags.”

“Right,” his son groused, shuffling back toward the vehicle, his daughter silently following.

Most of their things were already there—Bart had sent a truckload ahead and Felice had made certain the kids’ rooms were set up with familiar treasures in hopes that they would adapt to the move more easily. For a moment, he watched them, intent on unloading the vehicle, shoving at each other in their best, normal brother-sister fashion.

Suddenly, Lainey screeched as Daniel pulled back and raised his arm, her camera in his hand.

“Hey, maybe it’s time I learned to use this thing,” he taunted.

“Give that back, Daniel!” she yelled as the automatic camera whined and clicked several times. “Stop that! You’re wasting my film!”

“Maybe I’m creating art.” Her brother’s taunt was followed by more whines and clicks.

“Da-a-ad!”

“Give your sister her camera, Daniel,” Bart said quietly. “Now.”

Daniel lowered his arm and a livid Lainey grabbed it from him. She gave the instrument a quick once-over, as if to make certain it was all right. Her hands trembled as they ran over the camera that had belonged to her mother. Bart wanted to cuff his son, who knew exactly how important that camera was to his little sister.

“That was my last roll, you moron!” Lainey yelled. “Now I can’t take pictures of anything! I hate you! I hate this place!”

Bart’s insides wrenching, knowing it was the camera she was really freaked out about even if she wouldn’t say so, he promised, “I’ll get you more film later, honey.”

But Lainey wasn’t talking to him or her brother. She grabbed what bags she could handle and stomped toward the house. Apparently unconcerned, Daniel buried his upper body in the back of the vehicle.

Sighing, Bart finally turned his full attention to Felice.

“Where is everyone?” He avoided asking about his brothers. “Curt…Laredo…Enrique?”

“All gone. The only one left from the old days is Moon-Eye and he’s picking up supplies.”

All gone.

All driven away.

No wonder his father had been so anxious to turn the ranch into a family corporation, Bart thought. Undoubtedly, he figured that way his sons couldn’t walk out on him again.

“We’ve had a couple of hands come and go since spring,” Felice was saying. “Only one stuck—Frank Ewing.”

“That makes three of us, then, to run this place,” Bart said, realizing how impossible that would be. “I’ll have to hire a couple of cowboys right away. Unless Reed and Chance show. What are the odds there?”

“Your father seems convinced they will come home.”

Home? Would his two half-brothers think of the Curly-Q that way when Bart himself had had such a difficult time doing so? Finally, he got to it. “So, how’s Pa?”

The housekeeper avoided his eyes. “The same,” she said stiffly.

That bad. Despite the fact that he and his father had never been close—at least not since he’d been a kid—Bart’s gut constricted.

“I guess I’d better go tell him we’re here.”

“Mr. Emmett knows. He’s resting and said he would see you later.”

Bart swallowed hard and nodded. And only hoped he hadn’t brought his kids to more grief.

THE TERRITORIAL-STYLE building stood a welcome relief—a thing of gracious beauty amidst the ruins of Silver Springs. And the clack of the brass knocker against the door brought a beautiful woman to open it.

Wiping her hands on her lace-edged apron, the woman asked, “Can I help you?”

She quickly smoothed loose strands of thick blond hair from her face and checked the twist at her nape as if to make sure all was secure. The rest of her was equally elegant, Josie noted, from her pearl earrings to her Italian leather pumps.

“Are you Alcina Dale?” Josie asked in a hesitant, soft voice.

“In person.”

“I understand you rent rooms.”

Entrenched on the porch, face half-hidden by the shadow of a Stetson from which spilled her tangled light brown, shoulder-length hair, Josie felt anything but elegant herself.

“This is the Springs Bed-and-Breakfast,” Alcina agreed, eyeing the single, aging leather bag Josie had dropped on the porch.

Josie knew what she must be thinking. A typical guest of a place like this wouldn’t wear jeans ripped at the knees and dusty, down-at-the-heel cowboy boots, or a stained denim jacket slipped over a white T-shirt. But the town didn’t have a regular boarding house, which is what she’d been hoping to find. This was the best suggestion the guy at the gas station could come up with.

Suddenly she realized Alcina was staring at her waist, where an inscribed silver buckle proclaimed her initials to be J-W. Self-conscious under the close scrutiny, Josie brought a hand to her belt and quickly covered the engraving.

“The problem is…um, well…I’m looking for work.”

Alcina sighed. “The seasonal tourist rush is over, and I really can’t afford to pay for help.”

“I—I thought maybe if you had a really small room, you might let me help you around here for my keep…. All I need is a place to sleep and some food until I get a job. Then I’ll pay you with real money.”

The note of desperation in her own voice grated on Josie. Sighing, she glanced down the twisted road that made up Main Street. Nothing for her there. Only a handful of occupied storefronts waged war against abandoned buildings and rubble left behind fallen structures.