Slocum 329

It was sometime after midnight, Slocum figured, when the moonlight shining in his face woke him from a fitful slumber.

He rolled onto his side. Pain shot up his arm to his shoulder. How come the dime novels never mentioned things like that?

He was getting too old for this bull. If nothing else, the damn wound would serve as a reminder to watch his back until he figured out what was going on.

Slocum stood, slipped on his pants and boots, and opened the door into the hallway.

Other than the noise coming out of Abel’s room—him sawing enough cords of wood to last through the whole winter—the house was quiet.

Slocum hated to admit it, but he’d once read a dime novel or two himself. In one, the gunslinger—John Wesley Hardin or maybe Doc Holliday, he couldn’t remember which—had shot some fool in the next room just for snoring.

Somewhere out on the desert, coyotes howled a tune as he quietly made his way though the house. An oil lamp, its wick turned low, burned on the fireplace mantel. Slocum tripped on one of the chairs and grabbed the back for balance.

Damn that arm! Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have given a bitty little flesh wound a second thought.

The massive oak front door stood slightly ajar. He swung it open, pushed the screen, and stepped onto the veranda. He eased the door shut so that it wouldn’t bang.

Slocum scanned the dark, listening for anything unusual. Nothing stirred the night air.

Glad he’d remembered to bring his tobacco pouch, he separated a rolling paper and quickly put together a smoke. Then he drew the head of a lucifer across the railing.

Dud. Spark but no fire. Just like that ruse with the slaughtered horses.

“Damn,” he muttered and struck another. This time the lucifer caught and he lit the quirlie. He took a deep drag, then said, “What you doin’, hidin’ in the shadows, Marcus?”

“Mighty brave, don’t you think?” Marcus moved into the moonlight, hand on his gun.

“For a man who nearly got his head blowed off this afternoon. Steppin’ out, striking a match in the dark, no gun. Purty easy target, if someone wanted to take potshots . . . and how’d you know it was me?”

“Smelled your stink, polecat, and I don’t need a gun for no varmint—”

Behind him, the screen door banged. Then he saw the glint of cold steel emerging from near his side and heard the ratchet of a hammer being cocked.

“M-Miss Miranda,” Marcus stuttered in surprise. “I was just . . . just checkin’ up before turning in.”

Slocum flicked the butt into the yard as Marcus made his way in the direction of the bunkhouse. Slocum turned toward her voice.

Miranda stood before him, both hands barely holding up the barrel of one of his Colts. The ripe, full curves of her body showed through her wrapper. He wondered what she had on underneath.

This was no time to go investigating. He said, “Better let me take that before you shoot somebody’s foot off, darlin’.”

“I was having trouble sleeping,” she explained. “I heard noises—besides Uncle Abel’s snoring, that is. From the front room. I went to wake you and saw you were gone, but the bed was still warm, so I figured it was you out there.”

“Then I saw both your guns still in their holsters, and I didn’t know what to think, so here I am.” Her small, slender hands offered the gun, which he took.

“No more tomfoolery tonight, young lady. Back in the house with you, before you catch your death. Don’t suppose Carmelita left any coffee, do you?”

He took the gun from her, slipped his free arm around her, and escorted her into the house. Slocum liked how her curves fit his body.

While Miranda rustled up a cup of coffee, Slocum stalked to his room and holstered the gun. He would not always be around to protect her.

Remembering his saddlebags, he dug deep into them. Having pulled something from the bottom of one, he returned to the front parlor.

Miranda was just returning from the kitchen. “What are you hiding in that big paw of yours?” She set the mug next to the lamp on the fireplace mantel and turned up the wick.

“More importantly,” she purred, “what would you like to be holding?”

Slocum graced her with an easy smile and held out a single-shot derringer. “Figured if you’re going to be a gunslinger, you better have a gun you can tote a mite better than my Colt.”

“Oh,” she cooed, taking the walnut-handled piece in her hand and aiming it at the door. “Where’d you come by something like this?” She examined the silver inlay and cross-hatched carvings.

“Took it off a saloon girl when I was kind of the temporary sheriff, right after she gut-shot some fool. The idiot didn’t know enough to keep his mouth locked tight, or his pants buttoned up.”

Something caught Slocum’s eye. At the corner of the mantel was a collection of pipestone carvings, the red stone marbled with streaks and flecks of white. Pipes in various stages of finish and several figures of desert animals were arranged in a grouping. “Where’d these come from?”

“Been there as long as I can remember,” Miranda said. “I used to play with them when I was little. Nowadays, Carmelita complains about ’em every time she has to dust.” She picked up the carving of a coyote and ran her fingers over the polished stone.

“Right before he died, Papa told me he found them near the mouth of an old pipestone quarry.” Miranda’s voice caught.

“Around here? I thought the Indians traded with the northern tribes for all their sacred stone. You’re sure he said it was on this land?”

“Positive. He told me it was near the ruins, up by the waterfall. And that sometimes water covered it when the arroyos were full after a storm.”

Sinuously, she draped herself on the divan. “I used to hunt for it when I’d go up there for a swim. Never found it, though. But, yes, I’m sure that’s where he said it was. I wish I’d had the chance to ask—”

“What’s going on out here?” Abel Cassidy shuffled into the room from the hallway.

“Course I’m awake,” he said accusingly. “Who can sleep? Goll-danged yelling, doors banging, and furniture bein’ tossed all over the place. And what are you doin’ out here half-nekkid?”

Slocum didn’t like the way Abel leered at Miranda’s figure. It was the most un-uncle-ish look he’d ever seen on a man.

Miranda appeared not to notice. “I was just showing Slocum the carvings Papa found. You know anything about ’em?”

“Nah,” Abel said. Then to Slocum, he said, “My brother was a tight-lipped son of a gun. Hell, he never told me he had a safe, till right before he died. Course when I opened it, there was nothing except a stack of bills. He never was too business minded.”

“And you are?” Miranda shot back. “At least my father knew enough not to bring men like Marcus and Foley around.”

“What’s got into you lately?” Abel bellowed. “Told you I had to hire them—to find out who’s been feedin’ my good horses to the buzzards.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little more than strange,” Miranda said with cold calm, “that nothing like that ever happened before? Not until after your pal Vance Jefferson left. Not until just before Marcus and Foley wandered in, asking for work.”

“Now, don’t go accusin’ someone who ain’t around to defend himself,” Abel fairly shouted. “It was just a coincidence, an ugly coincidence.”

“Seems like there’ve been far too many coincidences, Uncle Abel. And that’s why I brought Slocum here. To make sense of those coincidences before we don’t have a decent horse left on the Bar C to worry about. If I didn’t know better, I’d think . . .” Miranda’s voice trailed off.

Abel’s voice took on a calmer but far more menacing edge. “Think what?”

“Then go on back to bed,” he snapped. “Mornin’s’ going to be here before we know it.”

Now that was a sage bit of nothing, Slocum thought, as he headed back to his room. He punched his pillow into shape and stretched out on his back, sure he wouldn’t catch another wink.

As soon as first light snaked in through her bedroom window, she was up, dressed in her pale green riding habit, and headed for the dining room. Of all the things that had happened in the past few months, mention of her father having a safe bothered her more than any of them.

She kept hearing her uncle’s voice: “Hell, he never told me he had a safe, till right before he died. Course when I opened it, there was nothing except a stack of bills. He never was too business minded.”

Stack of bills? Never too business minded? That was a complete pile of road apples!

Miranda plopped into a dining room chair. As if by magic, a steaming cup of coffee and a pitcher of cream appeared in front of her. “Thank you, Carmelita,” she said, spooning two heaping teaspoons of sugar into the cup and adding a big dollop of cream. “Carmelita? How long have you worked on the Bar C?”

Carmelita blushed, but Miranda’s gaze held her fast. “Very well, señorita. After your madre die, very well.”

Miranda took a sip of the steaming brew. “Did you know if my father had a safe?”

“Sí, pequeña.” Carmelita wiped her hands on her apron. “Your poppy say everything you need is in that safe. You didn’t know?”

“I never heard a word about it until last night. Do you know where it is?”

“Sí, he show it to me. It is in the wall of his room, behind the painting of your mother.”

“I don’t tell that malo bastardo cabrón nothing!” she spit out and made the sign to ward off the evil eye. Then she put an index finger to her lips and glanced toward the hallway.

Slocum strode into the dining room just in time to hear Carmelita’s oath. “Mornin’ ladies,” he said.

“Coffee, Señor Slocum?” Carmelita greeted him with a warm smile and a twitch of her hip.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Slocum said, swinging his leg over a chair and hopping the chair legs up to the table. He was certain then that her words had not been for him.

“Evil bastard.” That left Abel Cassidy. Well, if the shoe fit . . .

The climate sure had changed drastically since the last time he visited the Bar C.

“You drink. I bring you big breakfast,” Carmelita said, and hurried off to the kitchen. Before she reached the door, she peeked over her shoulder. “How you like your eggs this morning, señor?”

Slocum took in Miranda—a glorious sight, indeed. She looked awfully fine this morning. Green suited her well and the ruffles at her wrists and throat were a nice touch, he decided.

But if she was planning to go with him, he preferred the pants she had on the first time they rode to the Bar C. Slocum asked, “Feel like a jaunt this morning?”

The corners of Miranda’s mouth turned up and her eyes looked downright devilish. She said in husky tones, “Depends. What you got on your mind, cowboy?”

“Thought we’d do a little exploring. Maybe see if we can find that pipestone quarry, maybe do some target practicing. You might bring that derringer along, if you’ve a mind to. We’ll see what comes up.” Slocum’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “You remember that gold piece I found on the way here?”

“Two what?” Abel Cassidy groused, as he walked into the dining room and sat at the head of the table. He wasn’t at all pleased to see that little prick tease, Miranda, talking to Slocum.

Somebody needed to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget—and pretty damned soon. Abel was counting on being the teacher.

He’d expected to be long gone and out on the range before either of them cracked an eyelid.

All his careful planning. All his careful work. Everything was coming unhinged.

Now besides Marcus and Foley blackmailing him, he’d have to get rid of Slocum as well as Miranda—something he was not looking forward to tackling.

Why couldn’t the little bitch have left well enough alone? She was more meddlesome than his brother had ever been.

But she was a damn sight easier on the eyes. He felt himself getting hard.

“Forgot to tell you last night, Slocum,” he said, willing his erection down, “Sam Donaldson—he’s our undertaker in Apache Wells—brought Dave Crone’s body here for burial. Just like you asked. Said to stop off in town and he’d give you his saddle.”

He paused. “Said the old codger didn’t have much else. A couple of the boys put Dave up in the old cowboy cemetery and read a few Bible words over him.”

“You mentioned it, Abel,” Slocum said. Was the old boy getting senile, too? Either that, or his anger had erased the memory. Either way, it didn’t bode well.

“I did?” Abel asked, and forced a smile. “Must be gettin’ absent minded or something.”

Humming, Carmelita bustled into the dining room balancing two heaping plates and a platterful of hot wheat and corn tortillas. She set one plate in front of Miranda and the other in front of Slocum, then poured Abel a mug of coffee.

Abel watched Slocum tear off a chunk of corn tortilla and sop up some egg yolk before stuffing it into his mouth.

Slocum washed his food down with a gulp of coffee before he answered. “Stiff. But it’ll be fit as a fiddle in a day or two.”

That arm wasn’t the only stiff thing in the room. Abel shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Nice day for a ride,” he said, making small talk. Those two had been jabbering like a couple jaybirds when he came into the room. Now they acted like they had lockjaw.

When it was clear he was not going to get anything out of them, he said, “I’ll be gone most of the day. Got to see to that order for army mounts.”

Carmelita’s feet swished across the floor. She laid a plate of eggs, sausage, and home fries with onion in front of Abel. He guessed she was in cahoots with them, too.

Abel knew his brother had been dipping his measuring stick into her well for a long time. He should have dismissed her ass the day Judah had died. Would have if she hadn’t been such a good cook.

“You tryin’ to fatten me up?” Slocum patted her ample rump, sending Carmelita into squeals of laughter.

Abel had seen enough foolishness for one morning. He gulped down his coffee, took another bite of potato, and scooped the eggs and sausage into a couple flour tortillas to take along.