Mom's The Word. Roz Denny Fox
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and it suddenly seemed absolutely right that she be here. A cameo carved in blue was the only memento she had of her mother. Another legacy stolen by Joe Ryan. Losing the cameo had hurt worse than his selling the Silver Cloud.
Ben O’Dell had carved his name in the sign. That was how prospectors staked a claim. Hayley could expect to find a similar mound at each of the claim’s four corners. Twenty acres in all was the limit one person could work.
Night was sneaking up on her. The sun had slipped behind the Sierrita Mountains. Tomorrow would be plenty of time to take stock of the land Hayley planned to call home for at least the next six months. What she needed to do in the remaining daylight was unhitch the pickup and level the trailer. With luck, she’d have time to gather a bit of wood and build a campfire. The trailer’s utilities ran on butane, but she wanted to save that for when inclement weather drove her inside. She hadn’t passed a convenience store or gas station, in the past thirty miles. Twenty of those miles had been unpaved road. Yes, she’d do well to save her store-bought resources and live off the land for as long as possible.
One indulgence she’d bought—a portable radio. And she’d laid in a good supply of batteries. It had seemed a frivolous purchase at the time, but as she snapped it on and twirled the dial until she found the faint strains of Tejano music coming from across the border, Hayley thanked whatever had prompted her to make the impulsive buy. With music, she didn’t feel half so alone.
As she built a fire, hammered pegs to hold the trailer’s awning and dragged out the two lawn chairs that had belonged to Gramps, Hayley paused a moment to appreciate a truly glorious sunset. Life wasn’t so bad, she decided on a rush of emotion. In fact, things had turned out pretty darned good. The thought ended abruptly. Over a lull in the twangy music, Hayley heard the steady clip-clop, clip-clop of a horse’s hooves.
Holding her breath, she lowered the music. Yes, a horse and rider were definitely coming closer. The squeak of leather told her the horse was saddled. Gramps had taught her well to listen for and delineate sounds in the wild. And he obviously didn’t consider this site totally safe; in the pickup’s window rack, Ben had left a twelve-gauge, double-barreled shotgun and a well-oiled rifle.
Hayley dashed to the truck and grabbed the shotgun. She’d never shoot a person, but scaring someone, now, that was a different story. No stranger to guns, Hayley counted on being able to run a good bluff. She carefully put the crackling fire between her and the approaching rider.
Unfortunately he came at her out of the west, forcing her to look directly into the brilliant red glow of the sinking sun. Horse and rider rounded an outcrop of granite, appearing as a huge dark shadow. The horse snorted and blew as if he’d been ridden hard. The man sat tall and menacing in the saddle. These few facts registered with Hayley as she raised the gun to her shoulder and said in the toughest voice she could muster, “Stop right there.” Squinting, she saw that the stranger wore a battered Stetson. His shoulders were wide, his legs long, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a while. Even in modern times, Tombstone attracted its share of saddle tramps; Hayley had heard that the farther south one went, the more likelihood there was of encountering men who made their living rustling cattle or running contraband across the border. Just another show of her bad luck that she’d meet one of the unsavory types her first night out.
“Who the hell are you?” a rough voice asked. “This is private property. I’ll give you two seconds to pack up and scram off Triple C land.”
Hayley had to hand it to the stranger. He ran a fair bluff, too. “Scram yourself, cowboy. I have a piece of paper that says this twenty acres belongs to me as long as I work my claim. And I’ve got a loaded gun backing up my right to be here. I suggest you hightail it back wherever you came from.”
“You’ve staked a claim? For mining?”
“Not your business, cowboy.” Hayley drew back one shotgun hammer. Instead of withdrawing as she expected, her visitor touched his boot heels to the big gelding and crow-hopped toward her.
Hayley didn’t want to shoot, but the closer he got, the bigger he seemed. His sweating horse might as well have been breathing fire. Hayley panicked. She envisioned her life and that of her unborn child ending here in no-man’s-land, where the buzzards would pick her bones clean and no living soul would care. Aiming above his head, hoping to make him think she meant business, she fired.
The force of the explosion slammed the stock of the gun against her shoulder and spun her sideways. But not before she saw a limb on the mesquite splinter. A thick limb, about to drop on the stranger’s head. If she didn’t do something, it could strike him dead. Hayley dropped the shotgun and lunged at the bay gelding.
“Are you plumb crazy, woman?” The rider jerked back on his reins, which was the wrong thing to do. The limb hit him hard and scared his mount, who reared high on his hind legs and bolted, sending his rider flying.
The man landed hard enough to shake the ground.
“Oh, no. Oh, no!” This was not at all what Hayley had intended. Muttering a prayer, she hurried to the stranger’s side, fell to her knees and peered anxiously at his face. A great bloody gash spread above his left ear. Hesitantly she slipped her fingers beneath the red bandanna he had tied around his neck, checking for a pulse.
“Thank God.” Hayley heaved a sigh and pillowed his head on her knees. His pulse beat slow and steady. At least she hadn’t killed him.
JACOB COOPER opened his eyes. He felt the world spin, so he shut them again. There was a hollow ringing in his ears. It took Jake several moments to realize he was no longer seated in his saddle but lay horizontally on the ground—with his head resting on something soft. Good, since his head hurt like hell.
What the devil had happened? It’d been years since he’d tumbled from a horse. Not since his rodeo days.
All at once Jake remembered the woman with the big eyes and the even bigger gun. Had she shot him? He struggled to sit up and, though woozy, nearly smacked his nose into a face peering at him from close range. Had he met his maker? Was this the angel of death? Somehow he’d never expected the angel of death to be so pretty.
So pretty, or so solidly real. It dawned on Jake that his head lay on the lap of a flesh-and-blood woman. He was so deliriously happy to discover he was alive he started to laugh.
His angel of death’s beautiful eyes narrowed warily. Jake noticed they weren’t blue as he’d thought at first but almost lavender—unless it was a trick of the light created by a fading sun.
“What’s so funny?” the woman demanded, beginning to edge out from beneath his shoulders.
“You are,” Jake said, planting a hand near her hip so he could lever himself into a sitting position. “If I’d been the kind of guy you thought I was—the kind who needed killing—you’d be in a heap of trouble about now, lady.”
She scrambled backward, still on her knees. “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I’ll have you know I generally hit what I aim for.”
Jake touched his bloody head. “I’ll vouch for that.” He climbed shakily to his feet and whistled for his horse, who now stood quietly lapping water from the spring.
“I aimed over your head. The sun was in my eyes. I didn’t know the shot would sever a dead limb on that big old mesquite.”
Jacob now understood why he couldn’t hear so well. It’d been the nearness of the shotgun blast. He glanced at the ground, saw the size of the limb and thought it was a miracle he and Mojave hadn’t both been killed. The base of the limb was as big around as his thigh, and the front portion looked like a spike. “Loggers call limbs like this widow makers,” he muttered. “Only I don’t have a wife.”
The woman obviously wasn’t anywhere near ready to trust him. While he patted down his horse, checking him for injuries, she stretched out a hand to retrieve her gun.
It was then that Jake noticed how dark it had become. The only light now came from the woman’s campfire. Yet he could clearly see what she had in mind. In two long strides he beat