Chapter Fifteen
Official permission to cross the reservation came that morning in the form of a hand-lettered document with a feathered seal attached.
“Suitable for framing,” Sarah Wagner murmured, fingering the heavy, handmade paper.
“I’ll bet there aren’t more than half a dozen in existence,” Jess added.
“Three in my lifetime that I’m aware of,” Shoes confirmed. He had been obviously distressed by the news of his cousin’s illness, but kept very much to himself. He split a look between Rye and Kara. “My uncle reveres one or both of you.”
“It wouldn’t be me,” Kara muttered. “I didn’t do or say anything.”
“I’m sure you impressed him favorably,” Shoes said with a little smile.
Kara wanted to think so, but it didn’t really matter. Nothing much did, really, not now. She had believed that the ranch was everything to her, the most important thing in her life. She knew better now. Things shouldn’t be that important, couldn’t once you’d loved someone, really loved them. Why couldn’t Rye see that loving someone and being with them was the most important thing in the world? He should have, after yesterday. He even admitted that he loved her, but he’d convinced himself that he was a failure at marriage, and he wouldn’t even give them a chance.
“We’d better get moving,” Rye said from his vantage point on the back of a horse.
“Be careful, son,” Sarah Wagner said, reaching up to hug him as he bent low.
“I will, Mom. Be sure George gets off okay, and tell him I’ll be in touch.”
“George will be fine,” his father said. “Wanda’s on her way to get him now, and that’s the best medicine there is for a man in love.”
Rye said nothing to that, just nodded noncommittally.
“You’re sure you want Champ to go along?” Jess asked one more time.
Rye nodded. “He’s had a shock, Jess. I want him with me. I’m sure we’ll be safe as long as we’re on the reservation. No one from outside can easily get to us, and anyone from inside is bound to realize the danger of discovery is heightened now.”
“And we have the news crew,” Kara added.
Rye made a face, but Kara still believed she had done the right thing by insisting that the film team be allowed to go along when they’d shown up early that morning, even before the Chako messenger. A team of four men with two cameras, they’d come in their own expensive, four-wheel-drive vehicle complete with satellite hookup, prepared to rough it right alongside the drovers and willing to pay their own way in return for documenting the final days of the drive for some program they were planning about the modern cowboy. It wouldn’t be daily news coverage, but they’d promised to announce the project immediately on national television so at least the saboteur would know someone was watching. The star reporter, Bradley Wamke, was a national celebrity and had survived live coverage of the Saudi conflict as well as a climb up Mount Everest. A trail drive should be child’s play compared to that.
Truthfully, Kara hoped that Rye’s apparent disgruntlement was centered more on the way tall, dark and ruggedly attractive Warnke had stared pointedly at her chest than the nuisance of having cameras around. She’d wanted to slug the guy, but more importantly, so had Rye, if the look on his face had been anything to go by.
“Daylight’s burning,” Rye reminded them irritably, and wheeled his mount to ride to the point.
Kara thrust the Chako document at Shoes. “Give that to Mom for safekeeping, will you?”
“Sure.”
Kara smiled apologetically at the Wagners. “Thanks so much for everything.”
“Our pleasure,” Sarah Wagner said, and the Wagner men nodded in agreement.
“Be careful, Kara,” Jess called as Kara hurried toward her horse.
Kara tossed a smile over her shoulder. “I will! Thanks again.”
They waved as she cantered her mount toward the front of the herd.
Rye had dropped a loop on the lead cow just in case some time on the loose had blunted the instinct to follow the mounted rider, so it was Kara who gave the signal, standing in her stirrups and flicking the end of her rope at the rear end of the nearest cow, yelling, “Let’s mo-ove!”
The start lacked the smoothness of those in days past. One clump after another balked, so Kara rode around, twirling that rope over her head and snapping it at the balkers, while the drovers hazed and prodded them along. It was a good quarterhour before the herd coalesced, but eventually they were back in mode, moving as a single, if somewhat sluggish, body. Kara was surprised to see the camera crew keeping track of her in the distance, the driver expertly picking his way past ravines and outcroppings while the cameraman hung out the window, camera steady on his shoulder. She didn’t have much time to think about it. As usual, the work demanded her attention, and she was agreeably surprised when she spied the lunch wagon in the distance.
Bradley Warnke made himself amenable during the break, complimenting her abilities and shooting questions at her with the same suave ease. Rye seemed to take offense just because Warnke made her laugh from time to time, so much so that the break was cut short and she found herself in the saddle again before the last sip of soup hit her stomach. She put aside the anger and hopelessness of the morning and allowed herself to smile at the evidence of Rye’s jealousy. The smile had given way to exhaustion by the time the campsite came into view, nestled in the convergence of three sandy hills and a natural spring.
“Walk ‘em through thirty or forty at a time,” Rye ordered the men, “then drag out salt blocks and a water trough and hay ’em after the last ones have tasted the spring.”
Shoes and Bord had already strung a wire on two sides of a makeshift enclosure. They would string a third and use vehicles on the fourth side, throwing down their bedrolls nearby. A single rider on horseback would be sufficient guard for the night, but there would be precious little privacy on the now treeless terrain. In a single day they’d gone from an alpine setting to near desert.
Warnke staked a claim on Kara’s attention the moment her boots hit the ground and maintained it right up to the moment she stepped into the shower.
“Do you mind?” she asked in exasperation, tossing a towel over her shoulder and reaching for the edge of the tarpaulin enclosure.
“If he doesn’t,” Rye said, coming around the front end of the water truck, “I do.”
Kara just lifted an eyebrow and slipped inside, where she quickly stripped down to her smile. Well, at least he knew how she’d felt with Officer Cantu making herself too agreeable to him. Cleaned up and shivering cold, she took her hairbrush and a fresh towel to the fireside, where she began to get warm and dry her hair. Bradley Warnke came over with an expensive, furlined parka, which he draped over her shoulders, saying, “You look like you can use this.”
She spared him a glance. “Thanks.”
He crouched down beside her chair. “What’s with Wagner? He seems to want to keep me away from you, but when I asked if he had a prior claim, he just walked away.”
Kara smiled apologetically. Movement at the corner of her eye snagged her attention, and she turned her head to find Rye frowning at her from the dinner line. She looked him square in the eye. “Well,” she said to the reporter, being sure her voice carried beyond him, “it’s like this. I’m in love with Rye, but he has this problem with commitment. So I guess you could say we’re kind of in limbo.”
Warnke’s black eyebrows almost became part of his hairline. “The lady’s honest, I’ll give her that,” he said, rising to his feet. With a smile and a slight bow, he walked away.
Kara let her gaze flit over Rye and the others standing in line to eat, suddenly uncomfortable with so public a declaration, and then she saw Champ, standing next to one of the serving tables, one elbow hooked over the edge, his head cocked quizzically, a frown drawing his brows together and the corners of his mouth down. Kara caught her breath. Her gaze zipped to Rye apologetically, but Rye was studying his son, fingers slowly stroking his mustache. Kara got up from her chair, left the parka there and hurried away, aware that several pairs of eyes followed her. But not Rye’s. Rye Wagner had eyes only for his son in that moment.
Rye lifted the saddle into place and reached for the girth. He didn’t really much feel like riding night guard, but he figured he might as well. He wasn’t likely to get much sleep this night, anyway. Besides, it was only fair.
“Rye, I’m sorry.”
Straightening, he turned to face Kara, one hand on the saddle horn. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
“I’ve been standing in the shadows working up my courage.”
He shook his head. “No need for that.”
“I shouldn’t have made such a public declaration.”
He shrugged, still surprised by the initial rush of joy he’d felt at her words. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve been carrying on pretty publicly. Everyone knows you wouldn’t if you didn’t have feelings.”
“Everyone but Champ,” she said miserably.
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he got busy tightening the girth instead.
“How is he?” she asked, her voice rich with concern.
“I don’t know,” Rye answered truthfully. “He seems... I don’t know. Older, somehow.”
“He must be so very confused,” she said, “meeting his mother for the first time that he can remember, experiencing her culture, learning she’s dying. Then hearing me blurt out my feelings like that.”
“It’s odd,” he told her. “He seems, well, calm.” He tucked away the ends of the girth strap and lowered the stirrup, turning to face her once more. “Just a little while ago we were talking, and he made this statement that if anything should happen to me, there were a lot of people to take care of him. I promised him nothing was going to happen to me, but the really odd thing is that he made this list of people who care about him. You know, he named my folks and Jess and Shoes and Man Father...and your mother...and Crow Brother.”
Kara was as surprised as he had been by those last two. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “he’s spent an awful lot of time with Mom on this trip. She’s great with kids and truly fond of him. He’s bound to pick up on that.”
“And Crow Brother?” Rye asked.
Kara blinked. “He must’ve made quite an impression.” “Actually,” Rye said, trying to make it sound light, “Champ says Crow Brother is like another dad, because Crow Brother’s married to his mother.”
“Rye, you have to know that Champ adores you. He’d never choose anyone else over you. He—”
“I know. I know. It just kind of took me by surprise. I mean, it’s just been the two of us, really, and, well, Shoes and Jess. He’s never seemed to think of them as—”
“Shoes is his mother’s cousin. Jess is his uncle. He’s always known where to put them. Crow Brother is someone new, not related by blood. And he is married to Champ’s mother. It makes sense to assign him a, ah, parental role.”
Rye nodded, quite sure he wasn’t fooling her at all. “Yeah, you’re right Absolutely.”
She reached a hand out to him. “Rye, don’t be hurt. Champ loves you. I—”
He didn’t mean to do it. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t. It was best, after what had happened that morning, to keep his distance. He just didn’t know how to stay away. It was the most natural thing in the world to step forward and take her into his arms. His body seemed to know that, even if his head didn’t, and it acted on its own without even giving his head a chance to warn him.
“Kara, sweetheart, what am I going to do with you?” he asked against the crown of her head. Her hair felt clean and soft against his chin and lips. She smelled of woman and wood smoke, sunshine and earth.
“Don’t decide now,” she told him. “We have time, a few days, anyway. Wait until you see the ranch. Wait until—”
He covered her mouth with his, not wanting to tell her that nothing had changed for them. It was selfish, damned selfish, but he couldn’t let go yet Not yet.
She wrapped her arms around him and, as always, gave as good as she got. It was so hard to break that kiss and step back.
“I have to ride night guard, honey.”
“I know.”
He looked around them, knowing this was as private as it was going to get out here for now. “There’s no place to go tonight, no place private enough to—”
“I know. It’s all right. Maybe it’s even best.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “You can lay your bedroll next to mine, anyway.”
She smiled. “Okay. Promise me you’ll turn in right after your shift and get some rest.”
“Promise.”
She looked deeply into his eyes and said, “I love you, Ryeland Wagner.”
He didn’t want to say it, but he couldn’t help it. “I love you, too. I do. I love you.”
She closed her eyes as if to hold those words of his inside her. He wanted to cuss—or cry. God knew the kindest, fairest thing he could do was to stay the hell away from her. Why couldn’t he do it?
She pressed a kiss into the palm of his hand and backed away, smiling, and so incredibly beautiful it hurt to look at her. With a happy little wave, she left him. He put his hands to his hips and tried to breathe deeply, but it didn’t help. He felt like the biggest heel alive, because he knew he was going to hurt her. Bad.
Rolling rises gave way to flat nothing broken only by the barren, dramatic mesas pictured in so many old Westerns. It was a fit place for a crew of now scruffy cowboys and a slow-moving herd of beeves. According to Bradley Warnke, one almost expected a band of Indians to come screaming around a flat-topped mountain of rock, the cavalry hot on their heels, or a train of covered wagons to circle for camp. All Rye expected was disaster.
He expected to be sunburned by day and frozen to the bone at night, and at any moment he expected Champ to fly at Kara, fists whirling, demanding that she stay away from his father, or for Kara to demand a guarantee for the future, a public declaration of his own feelings, maybe even a marriage proposal. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that one of the other men might call him out for the way he’d treated Kara, or ought to treat Kara. He had a feeling that even Dayna was on the verge of asking him what his intentions were, and his greatest fear was that he’d make promises he couldn’t keep just to see that smile on Kara’s face a little longer. He was almost glad that he couldn’t make love to her just now. Almost.
On one hand he craved that girl with an all-consuming hunger that both surprised and frightened him. On the other he knew that denying himself the joy of her body was the only way, the only hope he had, of making a clean break when they got to New Mexico.
Actually they crossed into New Mexico late on the second day, and by the third night were camping on the very edge of the Jicarilla Apache reservation. They’d paid a fee for the right to cross, and so were duly met the next morning by a representative of the tribe, a small handsome woman with an authoritative manner and a keen sense of business. She spread an aerial map on the hood of her truck and pointed out the approved campsites, just so there would be no misunderstanding. Both sites boasted pens and abundant water sources. She looked over the receipt for fees paid that Kara presented her, promised someone would check in with them each night and shook hands all around before taking her leave.
“That’s what I call efficiency,” Shoes said, admiration ringing in his voice. Rye traded a surprised look with Kara and dismissed the matter. He had cattle to move.
About midmorning it became pretty obvious that the Apaches had garnered for themselves one of the most lush, beautiful spots on the face of the earth. The desert and all its majesty disappeared into forested vales cut with babbling brooks and still, blue lakes, tall grasses and birdsong. The men bathed that night in a spring-fed pond so clear it was like glass and cold enough to shatter their chattering teeth, while the women kept to the motor home for long, hot showers and privacy. They woke shivering the next morning, and Rye watched in horror as snow clouds banked in the east. Surely to God they hadn’t come this far to lose at the last moment because of a freak snowstorm. He practically tossed the boys into their saddles, gnashing his teeth over the inconvenience of dodging around cameras and a microphonewielding Warnke trying to capture the moment for posterity. Only Kara, with a serene fatalism totally out of character for her, remained calm.
They were locked into their schedule, thanks to the deal they’d made with the Jicarilla Apaches, but in truth it wouldn’t have made much difference—and Rye wanted this remaining time with her badly enough to risk it all, anyway, even if they were confined to stolen kisses and whispered regrets. It wasn’t necessary any longer, and they both knew it, but by silent agreement, they resisted the impulse to slip off together and make love. For him it would be too fraught with the feeling of goodbye; he’d had some of that already, and he didn’t think he could bear more. Not yet.
Thankfully the sky held, the snow clouds stacking like the Tower of Babel reaching for the heavens. A cold wind sent them all scurrying for heavy coats and dusters. Even the camera crew broke out the hats and knit caps. They left the reservation about midmorning that next day and polished off gallons of hot soup and coffee during lunch break at a roadside park. Night would find them within thirteen miles of their goal, but mere minutes from camp they passed through a narrow gorge cut between two low rocky walls, and that’s where the first shot spat dirt right beneath the belly of Rye’s horse.
Just for an instant everyone and everything seemed to freeze. Then another loud crack sent a bullet flying, and Rye felt it whiz by his hat. All hell broke loose. Even as Rye spurred his tired horse, Kara screamed his name, cows bawled, eyes rolled, and they had themselves a stampede. He was pretty sure there were more shots fired, but with his every brain cell locked on Kara and the possibility of her getting caught beneath the slashing hooves of the cattle ramming themselves through the narrow gorge, he couldn’t say for sure how many shots. He tried to get to her, but she was ahead of him, trying to ride against the flow toward him. Thankfully, her horse had better sense. Fighting its way around, it carried her through the narrow opening with the cattle and out of sight.
Rye spurred his poor bay mercilessly, desperate to get through the opening and find Kara. Then suddenly he was through. Horrified, he watched Kara desperately trying to contain the cattle, to prevent them from surging up and out of the narrow gorge and disappearing in two dozen directions. He yelled at her to let them go, but even as the words tore out of his throat he knew that she couldn’t hear him and wouldn’t have obeyed if she could’ve. He thought of the gun that was probably even then trained on them, but he couldn’t spare time to worry about it. First things first, and at the top of his emergency agenda was getting to Kara before her frantic horse fell and took her down into the path of the crazed cattle.
He yanked his horse up onto the steep, sandy wall of the gorge and raked its flanks mercilessly. That animal was all go. It climbed, slid and climbed some more, all the while lunging forward. Suddenly Charlie Choate was there at his side and then right behind him. Handling his horse with one hand, he flapped his hat with the other, hazing the cattle back down into the ravine. By golly, they just might keep them yet! Rye leaned forward in the saddle, giving his horse rein, and it took off like lightning. He got to Kara, putting himself between her and where he expected the next shots to come from. In the process, he headed off several cows bent on wild-eyed freedom.
A glance ahead of them yielded the welcome sight of riders flying low in the saddle toward them. He recognized Shoes and Bord at a glance. The other he assumed was Wes Randal. He was suddenly glad beyond words that they’d taken on those two extra cowboys, his heart pounded with gratitude when Wes dropped a loop, pretty as you please, on that lead cow, dragging her around to turn the herd. Bord and Shoes shook out their own loops, and Kara let one fly, too. Rye was almost too weak with relief to do any good, but somehow he managed to lasso himself a bawler and bring it to heel, while Charlie and Dean used their ropes like whips. In seconds the herd had turned and was milling in a noisy circle. Moments later it stopped entirely, shaggy hides heaving.
Shoes rode up to Rye and Kara. “We heard shots.”
“They were aimed at Rye!” Kara exclaimed angrily, and it was then that Rye realized Pogo and Dean had taken up spots behind him. Any shots aimed at him now would have to go through them. The hair lifted on the back of his neck.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’re going as a unit then,” Kara said, “you in the middle of us, even if it means leaving these damned cows to fend for themselves.”
Rye looked around him at the closed, determined faces of the best of friends and the woman he loved. He gulped down a lump in his throat. “Let’s move ’em into camp, then.”
Shoes gave a nod of satisfaction and smoothly assumed control. “Dean, Wes get on those flanks. Pogo, you and Charlie take drag. Rye, you’re with Kara and me on point, and I mean trading stirrups.”
Rye nodded toward Kara. “I don’t want her on the outside. The shots came from those rocks there.”
“Kara, you’re riding inside, then,” Shoes said, “and don’t give me no lip.”
She lifted her eyebrows, but moved inside as she was told. They rode to the point, real slow and easy, Rye in the center, Kara on his right, Shoes left and slightly behind, so close that his mount could have bitten Rye’s leg without so much as turning its head. The film crew had parked their vehicle at the top of the rise just outside camp, and a cameraman was standing on the roof, his lens sweeping the rocks to the north and behind them. Rye was suddenly thankful they hadn’t turned away the reporter and his crew, even if Warnke was too glamorous for his own good.
“Anything happens,” he told Kara, “I want you to ride for that news truck with all you’ve got.”
She slid a look at him. “Those shots weren’t aimed at me, Rye. You’ve always been the target! And I was too worried about getting the damned cattle to the ranch on time that I didn’t stop to consider, even after that rock nearly flattened you!”
He wanted to drag her off her horse onto his lap, but he didn’t dare. Those shots had been aimed at him, all right, and nowhere else. Still, he argued. “We don’t know that. No one has any reason to target me.”
“Unless they’re smart enough to realize that killing you is the one thing that will stop me,” she said bitterly.
He was shocked to hear her say it. For a moment he didn’t know how to reply, but then he knew he wasn’t going to let her give up no matter what. “You happen to know who the local law is around here?”
She nodded. “I’m willing to bet Mom’s already got the sheriff on the phone.”
“These Detmeyer women are sharp,” Shoes commented, grinning at Rye.
“Damn straight.”
Kara leaned back in the saddle a few degrees. “That Jicarilla Apache babe wasn’t exactly dull.”
Shoes grinned wide. “No, ma’am.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m thinking maybe I ought to hang around these parts for a while.”
Rye was too astounded to come up with a pithy remark or any remark at all, for that matter. He just gaped at Shoes, sure he hadn’t heard right. Shoes lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “What? You think I can only find happiness with a Chako, or don’t you think I like girls?”
“I hadn’t exactly thought about it. I just—”
“You just figured that if you got your fingers burned, mine naturally stung, too,” Shoes said. “Well, I’ll tell you something. The idea that my cousin is dying makes me think maybe I shouldn’t be hanging around waiting for you to grow a brain.” He leaned forward to look at Kara, adding, “I don’t know. Maybe we ought to paint a target on his chest and send him in the other direction.”
“That’s not funny,” Kara said softly.
“You hear me laughing?” Shoes came back sharply.
Rye wondered if he was in shock, or if maybe Shoes was. Or was that anger he saw tightening his usually inscrutable friend’s jaw? They rode right behind the news truck and straight into camp. Bradley Warnke was following them on foot with a microphone.
“Kara! Mizz Detmeyer! Mr. Wagner! Those were gunshots we heard, weren’t they?”
Rye wheeled his horse. “Yeah, they were shots. Somebody tried to aerate my hide. Now get the hell out of the way! We’re bringing the herd right into camp!” He waved an arm at Pogo, signaling him to bring them on in, while Kara yelled at her mother, Champ and the camera crew to get out of the way.
“Get that table down!” Rye yelled. “Spread these trucks and block the open spaces. Put out that fire!” Even as he shouted the order, he was dismounting to take care of it himself, while Kara and Shoes put themselves into breaks between the vehicles. “I want rope strung! Use the tables to block spaces, if you have to!”
It was pure chaos for several minutes, but in the end. they had the herd inside the loose circle of vehicles, which meant making camp outside. Kara protested that arrangement, but Rye wasn’t about to lose the herd at this point.
“We’ll set up on the east side. The shots came from the northwest.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t circle around!” Kara argued. “Look around you, Rye. He’s got plenty of cover to choose from.”
“Those rocks on the east are too close,” he said dismissively. “He won’t want to risk showing his face.”
“If he does,” one of the newsmen said, his camera still perched on his shoulder, “he’ll be seen around the world. Bradley’s ordered a satellite hookup, and we’re on standby.”
“Good for Bradley,” Rye muttered, turning his attention elsewhere. “Get those water troughs out! No showers! It all goes to the cattle. And drop some hay! We don’t want them spooky. Bord, I want that remuda on the southeast corner, and hobble ’em! I’ll be damned if I’ll lose a single mount.”
Rye ignored the looks traded amongst the others and handed his horse off to Bord. He meant for Champ to stay inside the motor home. He didn’t even want the boy standing in the door or opening the windows, but he glanced in that direction and caught sight of his son skipping around the end of the motor home, outside of the circle. On the northeast. Rye took off running. “Champ!” The instant he showed himself, he heard the crack of a rifle.
Instinctively he hit the ground, then popped up again and took off in the opposite direction, leading the shots away, he hoped, from his son. Shots peppered the ground around him. He ran for all he was worth, felt a burn across the back of his neck and fell. He hit the ground rolling, then scrambled beneath his truck. A cameraman had climbed into the bed, and he could hear Bradley Warnke expounding on “the event unfolding before our very eyes!”
“Got him!” someone else yelled.
But most confusing of all, Kara was on her belly in the dirt, staring at him from the other side of the truck, shouting his name as tears streamed down her face, and Pogo was lying on top of her, as if holding her down.
“Rye! Rye! You’re bleeding!”
“Where’s Champ?” he yelled, putting a hand to the back of his neck. It came away wet. “Champ!” he yelled again. The sounds of sirens in the distance did nothing to calm his fears. Terror unlike anything he’d ever known made his head swim and the world go white.