The Cowboy's Secret Son. Gayle Wilson
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of which…” Mark said.
He threw the dregs of his coffee out the open bunkhouse door. Considering the strength of the brew the old man boiled up on the woodstove every morning, he half expected it to sizzle in the dirt when it hit the ground. Despite the taste, though, there was nothing guaranteed to clear the head and get the heart pumping faster than Stumpy’s coffee.
“You take care,” Stumpy said. “We’re gonna have us some weather ’fore the day’s out.”
Weather. In the vernacular of the High Plains that meant a storm, which this time of year could include sleet or snow. Like most old cowpunchers, Stumpy’s battered bones were a better indicator of the local conditions than the six o’clock news.
“See you tonight,” Mark said, taking the bunkhouse steps two at a time.
Whatever Stumpy’s bones were telling him, Mark’s back felt better than it had for a couple of days. Of course, that might be due to the fact that he hadn’t had any marathon sessions in the cockpit lately. And today wouldn’t change that pattern. A run over to Albuquerque to take one of the co-op’s owners to a meeting was the only thing on his agenda.
That could always change, but it looked as if he might have the afternoon free to take the résumés he’d been working on to the post office in town. He didn’t want to mail them from the ranch. That was something that his dad had drummed into him from childhood. The fewer people who knew your business, the better.
Not a bad philosophy, Mark admitted. Not in this case, anyway. Until he had another position lined up, he couldn’t afford to alienate the owners of the co-op. He’d keep his mouth shut about his plans to move on. After all, that decision was nobody’s business but his.
* * *
JUST A GLUTTON for punishment, he thought as he found himself easing the stick to the right.
Flying over the Salvini place hadn’t been a conscious decision, but on the return leg of his trip, Mark had ended up again on the northern boundary of the property. Although the distance this route added to his flight time would be no more than a few minutes, they could be critical on a day like this.
The old man had been right about the storm. The sky was low, the clouds were dark and threatening, and the temperature had dropped at least fifteen degrees since this morning. He needed to get the chopper down before the storm hit, but the temptation to see what the new owners were doing was too strong to ignore. At least that was what he told himself as he headed south.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of movement on the tabletop flatness below. Hoping for something like the antelope he had startled into motion a few days ago, Mark looked down, carefully scanning the area. And when he found what had attracted his attention, it took a second or two for him to comprehend what he was seeing, because it was so unexpected.
Beneath him was a kid. On foot. And alone.
The impressions bombarded his brain, but it took another minute to adjust his course so that he was flying back over the spot where he’d seen the child. As he did, he realized that he hadn’t been mistaken about any of those things.
The kid looked up, watching the helicopter’s approach. As Mark drew nearer, details became apparent. Boy, he decided, although with today’s unisex clothing and hairstyles, gender could be hard to distinguish.
As soon as the child realized the chopper was coming back, he turned, too, heading off in the opposite direction. Although he was hurrying, he wasn’t really moving very fast. He was limping, Mark realized as he watched the uneven gait. And his limp was slowing down what was obviously supposed to be an escape attempt.
Despite the threat of the predicted storm, Mark’s lips tilted into a smile. He’d be willing to bet the kid was wearing new boots of a kind not designed for hiking in this terrain. He could visualize them in his mind’s eye. The pointy-toed tourist-variety cowboy boot, gaudy with decoration. And if the boy thought he could outrun him in those things…
Mark brought the helicopter alongside and just above the child, jabbing his finger toward the ominous cloud bank that lay above the horizon. He was near enough to see brown eyes widen in a pale face as the child looked up. Near enough that he could tell that the flapping windbreaker would not offer nearly enough protection from the cold that would come sweeping in across the plain.
He increased pitch, pulling up a little and moving in front of the kid, who was still trying to run with that loping awkwardness. Then, very carefully, he set the chopper down maybe thirty feet in front of the boy. As soon as he realized what Mark was doing, the child changed directions again, heading north this time. Right into the heart of the approaching storm.
“Damn it, kid,” Mark said under his breath.
He could lift off and land in front of the boy again. He could keep doing that until he’d worn him into exhaustion. Or he could get out and try to talk some sense into him. Maybe try to figure out what the hell he was doing way out here alone, a good five or six miles from the nearest habitation, which was…
New owners. New boots. The kid must belong to the family who had bought the Salvini place. He had probably set out to explore and gotten turned around. That wasn’t hard to do, given the unchanging sameness of the landscape. There weren’t any landmarks up here, and unless you had a compass…
Mark lifted the chopper off the ground again, closing the distance between them, and landed directly in the boy’s path. The kid’s lips were parted now, as if he were panting from the exertion of trying to outrun his pursuer.
Mark throttled down to flight idle and locked down the controls before he unfastened his seat harness and opened the door of the cockpit. By the time he’d stepped down, ducking under the blades, the kid had twirled again and was heading in the opposite direction.
It took Mark only a few strides to catch up. The boy must have heard him, although he never looked back. When Mark put his hand on his shoulder, the child twisted, pulling out of his grip.
He darted away to the left, and as Mark turned to follow, he felt a twinge of pain ripple through his back. He ignored it and ran after the boy, using the advantage of his longer stride to quickly lessen the distance between them.
When he was close enough, he reached out again, grabbing the boy’s upper arm. His hand closed around it hard enough to withstand the attempts the child made to pull away. The kid must be more panicked than he’d realized, Mark thought, holding on despite the frantic struggle the boy was making to escape.
“Calm down,” Mark said, his tone the same he had once used to gentle spooked horses. “I’m not going to hurt you. There’s a storm coming, and believe me, you aren’t equipped for the kind we get up here. I’m going to take you home.”
The boy’s efforts to free his arm ceased, but Mark didn’t release him. And for the first time, he got a good look at the kid’s face. There was a dusting of freckles across a slender nose. Dark eyes were fringed by equally dark lashes. And compared with the thick brown hair and those eyes, the skin that surrounded them seemed awfully pale.
City kid, Mark guessed. Any boy this age who had spent the summer out in the rural Texas sun would still have a pretty good residual tan. This kid didn’t.
Of course, part of that noticeable paleness might be put down to fright. Odds were the kid had never been chased by a stranger in a helicopter before. That would be enough to scare almost anyone, especially a kid who had gotten lost in unfamiliar territory. Mark was about to offer more reassurances, when the boy spoke for the first time.
“I don’t want to go home,” he said, jerking his arm free.
So much for the scared spitless theory, Mark thought, realizing only now that what he was seeing in those eyes wasn’t fear, but defiance.
“I told you, kid. There’s a storm brewing, and up here, that’s nothing to fool around with. Not in November.”
The eyes changed a little, holding Mark’s a moment before