Slocum 297: Holding Down the Ranch

A little before noon, just as she was sitting down to a lunch of leftover enchiladas and rice, Becky heard a ruckus outside.

“Tia Juanita?” she called, but when there was no answer she went to the door herself.

Wiping her hands on her checkered napkin, she opened the door, expecting one of the hands, perhaps Dave or Pete.

Instead, she saw Tate McMahon on the porch, and he was grinning at her. There were several armed men with him, two of which stood over beside the corral, holding the struggling Pete’s arms.

Tate McMahon grinned. It was a decidedly unwholesome smile. A waste of human flesh, Becky thought. Tate McMahon would have been a nice-looking fellow if he’d been anybody but Tate McMahon. As he was, he made her skin crawl.

He lifted a hand, and the two men holding Pete suddenly set him free. The force of Pete’s struggle—and sudden release—took him a few feet forward, and his hand automatically went toward his hip. But Becky shook her head and gestured to him before he could do anything silly, like draw his gun.

Instead, he picked up his hat from the dust and slapped his thigh with it in frustration. Blond, green-eyed and rangy, Pete was a good man, even if he wasn’t exactly first in line when the Lord was handing out brains. But he’d been with her daddy for ten years before she came back from the east, and he was as loyal as they came.

She didn’t want to be responsible for his death, and judging by the odds, letting him pull that gun would have been the same as killing him herself.

Just as she heard Tia Juanita’s familiar footsteps behind her, she saw the little surprise Tate had brought along: Judge Harry P. Radnor, still recuperating from last night’s drunk from the look of it, slouched behind him. Rumpled, pale, and slightly green, he clung, wavering and weaving, to the porch rail.

She stared straight up into Tate’s blue eyes. She had always liked blue eyes before, but now she was beginning to detest them. Tate McMahon’s were pale, ghostly, and cold as ice.

But he stuck his arm out and braced it open. “Not today, darlin’.” The grin on his face was absolutely maddening. “Why do you want to go and be so mulish on your wedding day?”

Becky drew herself up. She was scared, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it.

“Wedding day, my aunt Fanny!” she said. “Get out of here, Tate McMahon. You may own practically everything else around, but you don’t own the S Bar J. You’re trespassing.”

“Not for long, Becky, honey,” he said. His smile never wavered, damn him. “Not for more than a couple of minutes. Judge?”

Judge Radnor, all five-foot-six of him, stepped forward tentatively, and tugged his dirty vest down over his protruding belly. “Yes, Mr. McMahon?” he slurred. “Is the blushing bride ready?”

Becky felt herself pushed aside, and Tia Juanita stepped in front of her, planting her sizable bulk between Becky and McMahon. She brandished an iron skillet, the great big one she used for frying two chickens at a time.

“You do what Mrs. Jamison says, Mr. McMahon,” she said, pounding the skillet against the flat of her hand. “If she says that you are not welcome here, then you are not welcome. And you take this drunken old fool with you.”

She threw a piercing glance toward Judge Radnor. “Borracho!” she sneered, then spat upon the floor. “You are a disgrace to both the law and the Territory.”

Tate’s smile wavered, and he reached out, toward Tia Juanita’s throat. But Tia Juanita was quicker. She thrust the iron skillet upward so that his fingers jammed into it, and he yelped.

Suddenly, Becky heard Pete laugh. But it was suddenly cut off when one of Tate’s men clubbed him over the head with the butt of a gun. All around, hands went toward guns before Tate could get his bruised fingers to his mouth.

“Why, Becky Sawyer!” it said. “Ain’t seen you for a coon’s age!”

She had no idea how he’d gotten there, but the voice was unmistakable: Slocum.

Her Slocum, come back, and at just exactly the right moment. She didn’t know whether to cheer him on or slap him.

She turned toward the sound, and this time it was she who pushed Tia Juanita aside.

There he was in the rugged flesh, all six-feet-one of him, dark-haired and green-eyed, and not looking a bit changed from the last time she’d seen him. Suddenly mindless of the impending danger that was all around her in the form of Tate McMahon’s men, she ran out onto the porch, down its length, and threw herself into Slocum’s arms.

“How did you get here?” she whispered into his ear. “How did you know?” She glanced around, looking for something and not finding it. “And where on earth is your horse?”

“I’m no wizard, honey,” he whispered back before he lifted her, moving her brusquely to one side. “Looks like you got yourself a little problem here,” he said as he stepped in front of her, shielding her body with his. She let him.

She also noticed that several of McMahon’s minions were whispering among themselves, and a few of them backed off. They looked frightened.

But Tate McMahon, blast his sanctimonious hide, held steady. “Slocum,” he said. “That sounds vaguely familiar.” He rubbed the back of his neck while one of his men whispered something in his ear, and then he brightened.

“Depends on which Slocum you’re meanin’,” Slocum answered smoothly. He pointed toward Pete. “And you’d best pray that cowhand your boy just buffaloed is all right. He’s a friend of mine.” Becky wished she could see Slocum’s face.

“Oh, I think you’re him, all right,” Tate replied, answering his own question. “I’ve heard something about you. You looking for a job? I could use a gun like you.”

Becky made a little growling sound in her throat and moved to the side to go around Slocum. Her hands were balled into fists, and she was ready and willing—if less than able—to smash Tate McMahon’s nose in all by her lonesome.

But Slocum swung out his left arm, easily—and maddeningly—holding her still, and said, “Sorry, buddy. I’ve already got myself a job.”

Tate cocked his head. “Don’t tell me you’re working for my fiancé, here!”

And before Slocum could form one of his patented maddening sarcastic replies, Tia Juanita said, “Your noon meal will be on the table, Slocum. As soon as we rid ourselves of this uninvited company, that is. And Pete is moving, Miss Becky. I can see him.”

At five-feet-four, she just came up to his shoulder. How had he known she was in trouble? Or had he known at all?

It didn’t matter. He had thrown himself directly into the thick of it, now.

“Why now, I never thought of a wedding as ‘business,’ darlin’,” he purred. She wanted to slap him or slug him, or at least flatten him with a shovel. “And what’s this with this ‘Mister’ business all of a sudden?”

“Go home, Tate,” she said through gritted teeth. “Now.” She glanced out into the yard, and saw that Pete was, indeed, beginning to stir. Thank God he wasn’t hurt badly!

McMahon looked out over his men, and Becky guessed that even he could see that they all appeared a little jumpy. Becky hoped that he’d also decide that discretion was the better part of valor.

He tipped his hat to her. “We’ll finish this another time, then, Becky,” he said. Pulling the confused judge by his coat sleeve, he went down the steps and mounted his horse. His men followed his example, although quite a bit more nervously, she noticed. Their heads were twisting like owls.

Then McMahon touched the brim of his hat and nodded toward her savior. “Slocum,” he said. “Ladies.”

He rode on out of the yard, he and his men raising a low roil of dust behind them.

Slocum turned to face her. “Howdy, Becky,” he said. “You want to tell me what that marriage crap was all about?”

Instead of kissing him square on the mouth, she hauled off and slapped his face just as hard as she could, then stalked off into the house.

The slam of the door ringing in her ears, she fled through the main rooms. As she ran down the long hall her tears suddenly spilled over, and she threw herself on her bed, sobbing.