Fire Brand. Diana Palmer
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tell Bowie why. She should never have gone near him in the first place.
She tried to disengage her fingers from his strong, lean ones, but he refused to let go as they walked into the dining room.
When Aggie looked at them, she knew why. Aggie had been sure that Bowie and Gaby had come down to protect her from her new friend, but when she saw them holding hands and felt the blinding tension radiating from their set faces, she formed a new opinion. She pursed her lips and her eyes began to show sheer pleasure rather than astonishment.
Gaby looked up at Bowie to see a raised eyebrow and an amused twinkle in his dark eyes. She glared at him. So that was his game—throwing Aggie off the track with a red herring. She wondered how much of what he’d said to her in the pool house had been part of the plan. Had he meant it, or had he just been stirring her up so that Aggie would read even more into her expression?
She didn’t trust men at the best of times, but she’d always felt that she could trust Bowie. Now she wasn’t sure anymore. She felt vulnerable and afraid.
“Hello, mother,” Bowie said. He let go of Gaby’s hand and seated her before he leaned over to kiss Aggie’s cheek. “How was Jamaica?”
“Jamaica was lovely,” Aggie murmured dryly. She glanced at her friend and put her thin hand over his big one. “Bowie, this is Ned Courtland.” She made a caress of his name.
“How do you do?” Bowie said pleasantly enough, but his features were rigid and his eyes were already damning the other man to hell.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Ned returned in a slow drawl. “How are you, son?”
Bowie bristled, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He smiled coolly. “I hear you run a few head of cattle.” He sat down beside Gaby and lit a cigarette, his first that afternoon. “What do you think of the Japanese outlook?”
Ned raised thick eyebrows. “Well,” he began, “I don’t much care for Japanese food, to be honest, but I guess I could learn.”
Bowie’s expression, in another place, would have been comical. He leaned forward, his smoking cigarette in one lean hand resting on the other forearm. “I meant the export of beef to Japan.”
“Oh, that.” Ned smiled. “Damned if I know much about it.”
Bowie’s eyes were speaking volumes, and Gaby could see Aggie starting to fidget as Montoya brought coffee and Elena set platters of food on the table.
“There’s been a movement afoot to encourage the Japanese to import more American beef,” Gaby began, trying to help things along.
Ned glanced at her in an odd way. “Is that so?”
“There’s a hell of a lot more to the situation than that,” Bowie said irritably, glaring at her.
“I refuse to talk shop at the table,” Aggie said shortly, her dark eyes challenging her son. “Eat your lunch, Bowie, then you and Gaby and I might show Ned the operation here.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Gaby agreed enthusiastically. “Casa Río has some beautiful purebred Brahmans.”
“I hate Brahmans,” Ned said pleasantly, and smiled as if at some secret joke, his lean hands ladling chili into a bowl from the red pot on the table. “Ugliest damned cattle in the world.”
“Yes, they are,” Aggie chuckled, “but very suited to desert conditions.”
Bowie finished his cigarette and put it out with a deliberate motion that meant trouble.
“What breed of cattle do you like, Mr. Courtland?”
“Call me Ned.” He pursed his lips as he sampled the ham. “I like red and white ones.”
Gaby picked up her napkin and smothered a helpless laugh in it. Aggie was doing the same thing. Bowie looked as if he might take a bite out of his plate and then Mr. Courtland.
“Have some ham, Bowie.” Gaby offered the platter to him quickly.
He searched her eyes with pure malice, but he took the hint. He fell to eating while Aggie and Gaby caught up on each other’s gossip. Mr. Courtland seemed pretty intent on his own food, but there was a definitely amused gleam in his dark eyes the one time Gaby got a good look at them.
After lunch, Gaby stuck to Bowie like glue, torn between her growing attraction for him and her need to help Aggie ward off his temper before it exploded over Mr. Courtland.
The pasture stretched all the way to the main highway. Parts of it were fenced, only to keep in certain cattle. The rest, like most ranch land, was open range, and the cattle wandered where food and water were available. Bowie had plenty of windmills that pumped out groundwater into troughs for the cattle. All the same, the groundwater table on his land was dropping steadily. There were small streams running out of the mountains, but not nearly enough to supply his vast herds of cattle with adequate drinking water. It was this facet of ranching that the proposed agricultural project threatened. Agriculture used tremendous amounts of water for irrigation, and drawing it out of an already stressed aquifer only made the water table drop even lower. Besides that was the danger of pesticides leaching into that ground water and contaminating it, and the erosion from the disturbed soil. Agriculture was big business all over Arizona, but more and more farmland was being sold as agricultural ventures failed. Farmland was being developed into housing and business enterprises, which used less water.
But Gaby had a sneaking suspicion that Bowie would be just as opposed to a housing project or an industrial park on his land—maybe more so. It was the history and heritage of the land that he wanted to preserve, and its natural beauty. He had a keen sense of continuity, of saving his heritage for posterity—laudable goals that were hard-kept against the kind of public opinion that was polarizing against him. Unemployed workers wanted jobs. Conservation was all well and good, but it didn’t pay bills and feed hungry children.
“We have some fine grazing land here,” Aggie was telling Ned, sighing over the panorama that spread to the mountains on the horizon. “Despite the desert environment, there’s plenty of food for the livestock.”
“We can even feed them prickly pear—cholla and oco-tillo, too, but the thorns have to be burned off first,” Bowie offered.
“How do you get enough water to them?” Ned asked.
“We use windmills to pump it out of the ground,” Aggie said.
Ned frowned. “Why not pump it out of the river?”
Aggie laughed. “Ned, our rivers aren’t like yours up in Wyoming. Ours only run during the rainy season. We wouldn’t know what to do with a river that ran year-round.”
“My God,” Ned said reverently.
“Do you have prickly pear up your way, Mr. Courtland?” Gaby asked politely.
He shook his head. “Lodgepole pine, aspens, prairie grass. It’s an easier country for cowboys, except in the winter. We lose a hand or two every winter to wanner country. Six-foot snowdrifts just don’t appeal to everybody.”
“We get snow here once in a while,” Aggie said. “Up around Tucson, the saguaro cacti get a white dusting of it. It sure is pretty. Did you know that saguaro grows nowhere else in the country except in southern California, Arizona, and Mexico?”
“I thought I’d seen a few in west Texas and New Mexico.” Ned frowned.
“Organ pipe cactus, maybe, or cardon cactus.” Aggie nodded. “But not saguaro. There’s a lot to learn about them.”
“For example?” Ned grinned.
“Well, they can live for over a hundred and fifty years. They can weigh up to three tons. They’re pleated so that they can expand during the rainy season like an accordion. They’re woody inside. The fruit was and is gathered by the Papago Indians to make jelly and a fermented drink...”
“Tohono