Jodi Thomas - Lone Heart Pass

“Fair enough.”

“I’d need to stable my two horses in the barn.” He glanced over his shoulder. “At least it’s in good shape.”

“No problem. There are a dozen stalls.”

He studied her. “Make it ten dollars more an hour and you got yourself a foreman, not just a hand. I furnish my own horse and gear. I’ll charge for a fifty-hour week, but I’ll work until the job is done. I’ll also hire men when needed and you’ll pay them the going wage.”

Jubilee thought of mentioning that ten more an hour seemed very high, but what choice did she have? Her savings were solid. Her car paid for. She might as well put it all into the pot. This chance was the only game in town.

She nodded.

He put his hat back on. “I’ll move in late this afternoon and be in for breakfast tomorrow morning. We’ll talk about where to start.”

“Breakfast?”

“That was the routine with Levy. We planned over breakfast and I worked until the job or the day was finished. Any problem?”

“No.”

“You can cook?”

“No, but how hard can it be?”

He smiled, and she realized how young he was. Maybe a year or two younger than she. But she didn’t miss the steel in his stare. He hadn’t had an easy life and she guessed he wouldn’t trust easily. That was fine with her, since she felt the same.

“I’ll bring a few boxes of cereal and milk,” he said as he moved off the porch. “You make the coffee. Tomorrow we’ll set a plan.”

She met his stormy blue eyes again. “Will you help me make this place work? It’s kind of my last chance.”

He nodded once. “I’ll help you, but you got to wear normal clothes, lady. Folks around here might cart you off to the hospital for dressing like that.”

“I’ll remember that, Mr. Collins,” she said, trying not to react to his insult. She thought of adding that she didn’t do friends, so don’t even try. Maybe they should keep the relationship formal? She wouldn’t tell him too much and he wouldn’t try to advise her on wardrobe choices.

What would be between them would be purely professional. She had a feeling he wanted it that way, as well.

As he drove away, Jubilee went back to bed, remembering how early her great-grandfather had served breakfast. Her last hope, before she fell asleep after eating half a dozen pieces of fruit and the entire bag of cookies, was that she wanted breakfast to be closer to brunch when they talked each day. Surely he’d agree to that; after all, she was the boss. She should be able to set a few rules.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thatcher Jones

February 23

THATCHER JONES RACED down the neglected dirt road as if he was an IndyCar race driver and not still too young to get his license. A rusty old sign marked the beginning of a ranch called Lone Heart. What had once been a heart-shaped brand hung lopsided on the marker.

He eased his boot off the gas a bit. He and his 1963 Ford pickup just might make this run before the rain hit. No one was at the ranch anymore; it should be easy to get in and out without anyone noticing.

Thatcher had been keeping an eye on a nest of rattlesnakes under the back cattle guard on this ranch for four months. Now there were new folks moving in near the pass and he was about to lose two hundred dollars if he didn’t act fast. To add hell to fury, a storm was blowing in from the north even though the day was hot for February.

The sheriff’s cruiser pulled out in front of him from nowhere. Thatcher cussed a streak of swear words.

He slammed on the brakes, leaned out the window and yelled, “Hell, Sheriff, get out of the way. My brakes are no good.”

Sheriff Dan Brigman didn’t budge and, judging from Thatcher’s experience with the law, he knew that Brigman wouldn’t change or move no matter how much he yelled.

He pushed on the brakes with both feet but had to pull off into the bar ditch to avoid a collision.

Once the beat-up old Ford finally clanked to a stop, Thatcher piled out of his truck with a stranglehold on the top of a grain sack.

“You trying to kill us both, Sheriff?” Thatcher shouted, challenging the lawman, even if he barely came up to Brigman’s shoulder. “I ain’t lived fourteen years just to die in a fiery crash with a cop.”

The sheriff crossed his arms and said calmly, “What you got in the sack, kid?”

Thatcher had been told a dozen times not to hunt snakes off his own land, but listening wasn’t one of his talents. Neither was honesty. “I got cow chips. The Boy Scouts are doing a demonstration down in the canyon about how folks used to burn the dry ones so they could keep warm in the winter. This ain’t nothing but fuel for their fire.”

Brigman glanced at the bag and Thatcher prayed it didn’t start wiggling.

“I’ve told you, son, hunting rattlers is not something for a kid to be doing.”

“It’s cow shit, Sheriff. I swear.”

Brigman shook his head. “It’s shit all right. Tie that bag off and put it in the bed of your pickup. You’re not old enough to drive, and you’re out here in the middle of nowhere hunting rattlers in an old truck that might not even make it back to your place. I can think of a dozen ways I might find you dead.”

“I’m old enough to drive. I don’t have to sit on the blanket anymore to see out, and hunting ain’t dangerous. I’ve been doing it since I was ten. You just got to jitter when you reach for them so you’re a blur to the snake and not a solid target.”

“Who told you that?”

“My grandpa. He was a jittering fool, he’d been bit so many times.” Thatcher winked, giving away his lie.

“Get in the cruiser.” Brigman didn’t crack a smile. “I’m taking you home. But Thatcher Jones, I swear this better be the last time I see you on any road in this county.”

The boy walked toward the officer’s car. “You said I could drive the back roads out past County Road 111.”

“Yeah, but I’m guessing you had to cross at least four other county roads and one highway to get this far from your place.”

“You ain’t got no proof of that, Sheriff.” He knotted the sack, tossed it in the pickup bed and climbed into the front passenger seat of the cruiser, hating that it was starting to feel familiar. “You can’t arrest me unless you see me do somethin’.”

“That’s why I’m taking you home.”

Thatcher ran his dirty fingers through even dirtier brown hair. He hadn’t even made it to the Hamilton ranch. Hell, the snakes would probably be six feet long before he could get back. He sighed, knowing Brigman wouldn’t change his mind. “We stopping at the Dairy Queen before you drop me off back home, Sheriff?”

“It’s standard police procedure, kid. Double meat, double cheese.” Brigman started his car. “How’s your mom?”

“She died again last week.”

Brigman glared at him but didn’t say anything.

“She was at the tent revival over the Red into Oklahoma. Preacher pays her a hundred dollars every service to keel over and let the Holy Spirit save her. Not a bad gig. She only gets twenty-five for talking in tongues and fifty for coming in on crutches.”

The sheriff frowned.

“It ain’t against the law, Sheriff.” Thatcher saw it more as a sideshow and his mom did the entertaining. He changed the subject before the sheriff started asking more questions about his mom. “If somebody steals my truck, Sheriff, I’ll have you to blame.”

Brigman smiled. “If they do they won’t be hard to find. They’ll be dead on the road after they open that sack you got in the pickup bed. Bitten by cow chips is an odd way to die.”

They drove in silence all the way to Crossroads. Thatcher figured if he said anything the sheriff would start another lecture. Brigman could lecture the wheels off the fiery chariot.