Sarah McCarty - Tracker's Sin

“Will do.”

“Come right back.”

Tracker nodded, used to men not wanting him around their womenfolk.

He made it to the barn door before Vincente called out, “I tell you not to linger because my wife has been nervous of late, and she is not such a good shot.”

“She the shoot-to-kill type?” Tracker respected that. No one should pick up a gun without being prepared to kill.

“It would be better that she was, but she has a soft heart and bad aim.” Vincente smiled. There was a world of love in that smile. “I am afraid she would aim for your foot and hit your heart. I do not want to be in church so much as it would take for her to repent.”

Tracker chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Gracias.” The lightness left Vincente’s expression. “Later, if I decide you can stay, I will introduce you.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to work today to impress you.”

“Because you don’t want a bullet in your heart?”

Tracker shook his head and called back, “Because it’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

The old man shook his head and gathered up Abuelita’s lead rope. “It is lonely for a man as he gets older, sí? ”

Not for Tracker. He couldn’t let life get lonely. “For some.”

Vincente slapped the cow’s rope against his boot, punctuating his mocking tone when he said, “For some, huh!”

The last thing Tracker needed was an old man playing matchmaker. It was bad enough that Tia wouldn’t accept reality. “Yes,” he retorted. “For some.”

“But not you?” Vincente asked as he led the placid cow out of the barn.

“No. Not for me.”

“Huh!” Vincente’s snort carried clearly as he led the cow to the fenced pasture. “Drop off the milk and we will get to work.”

The old man might be arthritic, he might be going blind, but he was a man on a mission, and that mission seemed to be to get as much work out of Tracker as he could. The first job of the day was to get a sizable new garden area ready for his wife, which involved plowing up the hard-packed earth. It’d been a dry spring, and the ground was full of rocks. The only tool the old man had was a weighted plow. With no horse to pull it, the only option was for Tracker to do the pulling. Apparently, judging from the cut-down harness, this had been the system for years.

After one brutal trip down the length of the marked-off area, Tracker was seriously considering hooking Buster’s temperamental ass up to the makeshift harness. But the gelding had a fierce reaction when it came to pulling things, and since Tracker wasn’t going to be around long enough to replace the plow, he grudgingly slid the harness over his shoulder and dragged the blade back down the next row.

“You sure your wife needs a garden this big?” he asked as he passed Vincente, who was hauling rocks out of the area with a net spread between two sticks tied together. It was an ingenious device that took the stress off the old man’s hands.

“ Sí. Absolutely.”

“Going to be an awful lot of canning.”

“Yes. She will be pleased.”

Was she going to be pleased or was Vincente? Tracker wasn’t certain. But one thing a garden this big would ensure was that a woman would have enough goods to eat or trade, whether there was fresh meat or not. He watched as Vincente again missed a rock with the net. Just how bad was the man’s vision?

He looked up at the sun. It was going to be a warm day. “Then I guess we’d better get it done before the sun blisters our hides.”

Vincente grunted as he dragged a rock over the plowed dirt. “ Sí. It will be hot today.”

After two hours, Tracker was sweat drenched, thirsty and hungry, but the new garden spot was plowed and Vincente seemed happy. From the house came the ringing of a bell.

“Ah! Breakfast is ready. We must clean up.”

Tracker shrugged out of the harness, more than ready to be done with the damn thing. “I thought the job came only with supper.”

“It does, but twice my Josefina looked out the window and saw you plowing.” Vincente took the harness from his hands and tossed it over the plow handle. “Her soft heart doesn’t let a man go hungry. There will be a plate for you and she will chide me if you do not eat it.”

Tracker could eat a horse, but having breakfast meant meeting the family, and he wasn’t ready to meet Ari yet. Wasn’t ready to substitute the illusion of his fantasies for harsh reality. His fascination with the woman had to end sometime, but not this morning. “Women can be the bane of a man’s existence.”

Vincente slapped him on the back. “So speak the young.”

It’d been a long time since anyone had called Tracker young.

“When you are older you will see they are the blessing God puts in a man’s life to ease his way.”

“Uh-huh.”

Vincente shook his head. “You young people today have no appreciation for the way things should be. Trying to change what you cannot, and running away from what you should be embracing…”

Tracker headed up the path to the wash shed and hazarded a guess as to what he should be embracing. “A woman? I’ve embraced more than my share of them.”

“A good woman.” Vincent put a lot of emphasis on “good.”

It was easy for a man who fit somewhere to hold such beliefs. “My father was Indian, my mother Mexican. There aren’t many good women who want to hitch their wagon to that mix.”

“You do not need many. Just one.”

“Uh-huh.” The old one was up to something. Whatever it was, Tracker wanted to nip it in the bud. “Vincente?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever you’ve got in mind, drop it.” The last thing he needed was a half-blind, arthritic old man picking out his love interest.

Vincente huffed. “I merely point out the truth.”

“Thanks.” Tracker primed the pump as Vincente scooped out some soap from the tin on the ledge. He let the older man wash first. “But I’m happy with what I’ve worked out.”

“You are not happy.”

“I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.”

Vincente muttered something under his breath as he finished washing and pulled his shirt back on. “When you are done, come up to the house.”

Tracker looked at the little home in the well-tended yard. Smelled the scents of wood smoke and sausages on the breeze. Inside, two women had a table set, coffee brewing and food ready. When Vincente entered, there’d be pleasant conversation, maybe laughter. There’d be love.

Tracker wasn’t going within a hundred feet of that house. Not this morning. He felt too raw inside to sit there and watch what he would never have.

“Will do.”

He waited until Vincente reached the house before pulling off his shirt. It took only a few pumps of the handle to get a strong flow of water going. Vincente was lucky to have such a rich supply. Tracker dunked his head in the spray. The well water was surprisingly cold. Frigid. But after the initial shock, it felt damn good on his overheated skin. He grabbed the soap and blindly scrubbed, pumping the handle a few more times, letting the water pour over his head and neck, enjoying the moment. When the temperature turned more chilling than refreshing, he stood, flipping his hair back over his shoulders.

A shriek loud enough to split his eardrums spun him around. He palmed his knife as he turned, ready for the threat.

He knew who it was before he shook the soap out of his eyes. Ari stood there in a pretty blue dress, her mouth open, a look of shock on her face.

He reached for his shirt. The plate of food in her hands fell to the ground, spattering her skirt. Ari’s gaze never left the knife in his other hand. Her throat worked furiously, but no sound came out.