Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (12 page)

“Your husband is dead, ma'am,” he replied and kept walking.

“How could you be so cruel?” Maria and Roger were now abreast of each other, but she did not wait for an answer—she strode forward as her mother climbed down from the fence and collapsed in tears on the ground.

Roger caught her arm and spun her around. “You've got bigger problems than a crazy old woman who—”

Maria slapped him with all her might. “You work for that crazy old woman,” she shouted. “Now let go of me.” She wrenched herself free of him and ran to her hysterical mother.

“Oh, Maria,” Constance sobbed. “It's your father. There's terrible news, and I don't know how I will tell the others.”

“We'll do it together, Mama. Now let me help you back to the house.”
Another
lie.
As they staggered past Roger, Maria shot him a look of pure venom. “You'll have to sleep in the bunkhouse for the time being,” she said. “The anteroom is in use.”

He glanced toward the house, where Juanita was handing the baby to Ezma as she ran to help Maria with Constance.

“You gave my room to—”

“Not another word, Roger, or you can leave. I have as much as I can deal with right now, and unless you have something related to the herd to report—”

“What I have to report is that I think your drifter might be tied up with the Tiptons. He knows too much about what they might be up to for my taste.”

Maria made sure Juanita had hold of her mother before she turned back to Roger. “You checked the water flow?”

“There's nothing wrong with the water flow, Maria. There's been a drought that has gone on weeks longer than normal, in case you've forgotten. The water runs slow because we need rain—a lot of rain—days and days of it.”

“But Chet said…”

“
But
Chet
said
,” Roger mimicked her. “Get those stars out of your eyes, Maria. The guy's trouble. I've done some checking, and when I was in town a few weeks ago, I got a wire back from the ranch where he worked in Florida. He ran off, Maria. Something about him and the rancher's daughter from the little that was said.”

So that explained Roger's trips to town over the last few weeks. He knew.

“Who's the kid?” he asked, jerking his head toward the courtyard, where Ezma was now playing with the baby.

“Apparently, he is Chet Hunter's son,” she said as she turned back toward the house.

“How? Why? When?” Roger was sputtering, but she did not answer him. She was not the one who needed to explain anything. That was a job for Chet Hunter.

* * *

Chet was beat, but he couldn't afford sleep yet. Turnbull had as good as admitted that he'd had a hand in Joker's disappearance, and that was news that Chet intended to get to the marshal in Whitman Falls as soon as possible, proof or not. His plan was to wait until the rest of the men were sleeping and then slip into town. He could find the lawman, give him the information, and be back in the bunkhouse before the others were up.

But once the herd was settled and he and the others headed for the bunkhouse, he had a gut feeling that all was not right. In the first place, he would have expected somebody from the family to be out in the courtyard to welcome Trey home and hear about his adventures, but there was no sign of any of the Porterfield women. Instead, he spotted a young Mexican woman he had never seen before in the courtyard feeding a baby. She turned away as he rode by, shielding her exposed breast and the child from him.

Could be Juanita and Eduardo's daughter, he thought. But Rico had never mentioned having a sister and surely Eduardo would have bragged about his beautiful daughter. He kept riding until he saw Turnbull's horse in the corral. That was odd because the foreman usually left his horse to graze and take water closer to the anteroom off the main house.

He had just pulled the saddle off his horse and placed it on the top rung of the corral fence when he heard a cry of sheer agony from the house. Without any thought for whether or not he should be the one to respond, he took off running.

Apparently, the young woman with the baby had also gone inside to see what was happening, for the courtyard was deserted, as was the kitchen and living room. Chet followed the sound of consoling voices and anguished sobbing drifting from a room at the end of a long hallway. He moved closer. He told himself he only wanted to be sure no one was hurt, but the truth was that he feared that somehow those cries were coming from Maria, and if that was the case, he wanted—no, he
needed
—to make sure that she was all right.

The door was open enough for him to see part of the gathering inside. Constance Porterfield was on the bed, propped up on pillows, fully dressed, and thrashing about. The cries came from her. Juanita kept trying to dab her face with a cloth while Amanda sat on the side of the bed, stroking her mother's hands. Maria stood just inside the door, her back to Chet.

“It's true?” Constance choked out the words even as her eyes pleaded for her daughters to deny whatever she'd been told.

“Yes, Mama, but it did not happen while the men were rounding up the herd. Papa died weeks ago. You've been ill and…”

“But I was with him—twice at the creek. I was with him just before…”

“That was not Papa. You only thought it was. You wanted so much to believe that—”

“Then who was that man? And do not tell me it was Roger Turnbull. I would never mistake my Isaac for Roger.”

“No,” Maria said. “It was not Roger. It was the new man—the drifter.”

“It was the baby's papa,” Juanita added as if that explained anything. She motioned someone closer, and Chet watched as the young Mexican woman laid the baby in Constance Porterfield's arms. “Remember?” Juanita said softly. And as if a candle had been blown out, Constance seemed to forget all about her grief as she focused all her attention on the child. “Hello,” she crooned. “Hello, little Chester.”

Chet's heart skipped at least a couple of beats as he tried to come to grips with a world turned suddenly upside down. The women had talked about him being the man by the creek but also about him being the kid's pa, and now they were calling the infant “Chester.” What the devil was going on here?

Behind him another door along the hallway opened, and he heard a voice he had hoped he would never hear again.

“Could someone please get me some water? This heat is suffocating me and…”

He turned and found himself not ten feet away from Loralei Culpepper. She stepped fully into the hall, dressed in a flowing nightgown and wrapper, staggered toward him and collapsed in his arms. “At last,” she whispered just before she fainted.

* * *

What
now?
Maria thought wearily when she heard the commotion in the hallway. She glanced at Juanita, who nodded that she should attend to this latest crisis, and left the room.

When she stepped into the hallway, closing her mother's bedroom door behind her, she saw Chet holding Loralei. Her initial reaction to the sight of him looking up at her like some small boy who had been caught stealing cookies was sympathy, but then she recalled how he had deceived her—and Loralei.

“Well, welcome back, Chet,” she said. “As you can see, your little family has arrived, and we've done our best to care for them in your absence.”

“We need to talk,” he said through gritted teeth as he lifted Loralei and carried her back into the bedroom where he deposited her none too gently on the bed. Maria's instinct was to ignore him and return to her mother's bedside. But she could not seem to keep herself from moving to the doorway and watching as Loralei apparently regained consciousness and murmured his name even as she stroked his unshaven face.

“Stop that,” he growled, brushing her hand away. The gesture reminded Maria a little of Loralei's rejection of her child. “What are you doing here, Loralei?” Chet demanded.

Loralei burst into tears and turned onto her side, burying her face in the pillow.

“She has come to bring you your son and to reunite with you,” Maria explained. “Isn't that right, Loralei?”

The woman offered a muffled whimper of agreement.

“I do not have a son.”

“Really?” Maria clenched her fists. What was it about men that they thought they could get away with blatant lies? Did they truly believe the female of species was that naive? “But you admit you know this woman?”

He ignored the question and came a step closer. Maria held up her hands to stop him. “Just answer the question.”

He ran his hand through his tangled hair. “Look, I don't know what she's told you but…”

All of a sudden Loralei sat up and glared at him—once again not a tear was in evidence. “You deserted us, Chester Hunter. Your own child, not to mention me—the woman you professed to love.”

“I have never said anything to you about love, and as for the kid…” He turned back to Maria. “On my mother's grave, I swear to you that I have never—”

Again Maria held up her hands—this time to stop his words. “You work for the Clear Springs Ranch, Chet. Your private life is your business and your mess to straighten out, and as long as that does not interfere with your work here, you and your family are welcome to stay on. I have settled your…Loralei and the baby and the wet nurse we found in the anteroom, although Loralei has been unwell, so has been staying here for now. In any event, Roger will move to the bunkhouse. And now I need to attend to my mother, who has suffered a great shock today.”

She stalked down the hall, fully prepared to wash her hands of all men. She was reaching for the knob of her mother's bedroom door when Chet called out to her. “Maria—Miss Maria—please wait.”

She hesitated, then said firmly, “No.” She entered her mother's room and closed the door.

* * *

“Chester?”

Loralei's voice was soft and pleading. There had been a time, back in the days when Chet had worked for her family, that Loralei's childlike plea could get to him. Her father had been a hard man—hard to work for and hard on his family. Sometimes Chet had felt sorry for Loralei because it was clear that her father kept her on a tight rein. He'd gone out of his way to be nice to her, even though he and the other hands were fully aware that she was a hopeless flirt who was bound to be headed for trouble one day. And trouble did come—for him.

“Whose baby is it?” he asked, still looking at the door Maria had closed in his face.

“Yours, sugar.”

He wheeled around. There was no way. He had
never
lain with her—had never even come close. He moved closer to the bed where Loralei was watching him and saw that she was scared out of her wits.

“What's going on, Loralei? Tell me what's happened to bring you all this way.”

She tossed her mane of hair and narrowed her eyes. “When Daddy realized that I was with child, he just wanted to make things right for me, Chet.” She nodded her head several times as if trying to convince herself of the lie.

“
This
is why your pa went so crazy that morning?” He'd been startled awake by the barrel of a shotgun pressed to his chest. Loralei's father was standing over him, yelling a list of instructions. He was to get his worthless self cleaned up and be at their table for dinner that noon. He was to ask to speak to him privately and ask for Loralei's hand in marriage. The wedding would be large and lavish, as befitted an only daughter. Chester would be on his best behavior and play the devoted suitor through it all, or he would be killed and his body dumped in the Everglades for the gators to enjoy.

Chet had done the only thing he could. He had agreed, played his part right up until the first chance he had to take off, and then he had run. He wasn't sticking around to see what a man as hard as her father was capable of once he got a crazy idea in his head. But then men had been sent after him—men who tried to hurt him—and Chet had been too scared to go to his own family, afraid of bringing trouble to their door, so he'd left Florida and never looked back.

Loralei had gone quiet, and he saw that she was watching him closely. “I swear I didn't mean for it all to get out of hand, Chet. Daddy just…” she said, reaching for his hand.

He let her take it. “Loralei, I don't know what's happened, but I know if you are here, then you are in trouble. I will do whatever I can to help you, but we both know that boy is not mine.”

Her face crumpled, and her eyes welled with real tears. “Marry me, Chet, and give him your name. Otherwise—”

“I can't do that.”

She frowned and glanced toward the door. “It's that woman, isn't it? You've fallen for her.”

He stood up and moved toward the door, his mind reeling with this new set of problems. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“Oh really. You certainly wouldn't be the first man to set his sights on the rancher's daughter, Chet Hunter.” This last was shouted as she picked up a pillow and flung it at him.

“Get some rest, Loralei. We'll figure this out.” He picked up the pillow and laid it on the bed and then left the room.

As he passed through the kitchen, the young woman he'd seen handing the baby to Mrs. Porterfield was now washing the child's face and hands. “What's your name?” he asked gently.

“Ezma,” she replied.

The kid grinned a toothless grin. “And this is?”

“Chester,” she murmured, her thick Spanish accent giving the name a certain beauty.

The kid let out a gurgle of delight and splashed both chubby hands in the pan of water next to where he sat on the table.

“Thank you for caring for him,” Chet said, and he started to leave, then turned back. “He's healthy?”

“Oh,
sí
.” Ezma smiled and rubbed noses with the child, bringing a fresh burst of gurgles. “He is a good little boy.”