Letting it Stand ch 6

 Letting it Stand

Chapter Six

 

 

The buckboard ride to Morro Coyo felt like purgatory, ‘cause he sure was suffering for his sins—each jostling bump a step closer to hell. Jesus. Morro Coyo had never seemed so far away from the ranch. Of all the ways he coulda gone about fixing this mess, he had to pick this one. The seat wouldn’t feel so darn cramped if Teresa had stuck with them jeans she had on earlier, but she’d changed into this pale yellow dress with petticoats that kept spilling out over to him, no matter how many times he brushed them away. Each time they hit a divot, the parcel she was storing down by her feet slid his way, making her tut extra loud as she bent to retrieve it. Or, the top of her straw bonnet would collide with the brim of his hat, until he got darn fed up and just let his hat hang against his back. He didn’t care if his hair got mussed, but Teresa was smoothing hers every time the wind blew.

 

For someone who hadn’t uttered a word since they left the ranch, her silence was doing a great job scolding him. Most times, before he’d gone and opened his big mouth the other day, she’d talk his ear off about folks he’d never met or cared to meet. Sometimes, she said something interesting about Murdoch or Scott, like when she told him about Murdoch keeping his bedroom untouched, just in case he came back, or about Scott’s taste in clothes when he first arrived from Boston. But mostly, it was girly talk; the kind he’d only pay attention to if he had a mind to know the girl in ways he sure didn’t want to know Teresa. 

 

But someone had to square things—big brother’s voice was in his ear again—only he’d tried yesterday afternoon and that hadn’t turned out too well.

 

“So, did you offer to take me to Morro Coyo for a reason, Johnny?”

 

Maybe Teresa was gonna do it instead. Only, when he snuck a glance, her gloved hands were tight together in her lap and her pinched face looked like she was chewing on cactus.

 

“Or was it so you could ride beside me in silence and prove just how sad and alone I am?”

 

He let out a slow breath. “You’re shootin’ from the hip today, huh?”

 

“Ooh, don’t tempt me,” she snapped, but she must’ve realised how foolish that sounded, ‘cause her lips twitched, and she attempted to hide it by covering her mouth with her hand.

 

“C’mon, you can’t really stay mad at me forever, can ya? I tried saying sorry yesterday—”

 

“You mean when you told me it wasn’t your fault that I took what you said to heart? That was your apology?”

 

“Um… well… I’m not very good at this kinda thing.”

 

“You’re not good at saying sorry?”

 

“Nope.” The buckboard jolted as they went over another rocky patch of road. “Is anyone?”

 

A frown pulled her thin brows together. She smoothed down her dress, even though the wind was gonna mess it up again. “Scott makes quite an eloquent apology. With those Boston manners, he’s very charming. I bet there isn’t a woman alive who could stay mad at him.”

 

He smirked. “Yeah, probably not. Look. I ain’t got Boston manners, but I am sorry ‘bout what I said. I didn’t mean any of it, I was…” Trapped, frustrated, unsure who the hell he was supposed to be anymore. “… mad at the world, I guess, and took it out on you.” He took a deep breath. This could go real wrong, but it needed saying. “But, it ain’t your—”  

 

“I know what you’re going to say. I was nagging when it wasn’t my business.” She clutched a part of her dress and twisted the fabric. “I’m sorry too.” She gave him a small smile. “I get carried away sometimes. Daddy used to tell me off for it, and last night, Murdoch did too.”

 

“You talked to Murdoch ‘bout all this?” Dios. After how their talk had gone about his schooling, how come his old man wasn’t spitting nails? 

 

“I was upset, but he won’t say anything to you. He assured me he wouldn’t. He said you’re not used to being told what to do, and if you want to ignore medical advice, that’s your choice. To a point. Then he’ll be the one to step in.”

 

Huh. He didn’t like the sound of that much. “That’s what he said?”

 

“Yes. Almost word for word.” She picked up the parcel and held it on her lap.

 

Hmm. How had agreeing to be a partner in the ranch become an agreement to be part of something else… something bigger? More than just a name? He looked at the worn reins in his hands, the cracks in the leather like a spider’s web. This family thing was like a web. He twisted the strip of leather around his finger until it cut off his blood supply. Once caught in it, it trapped you.

 

 

“… and then the Widow Hargis smacked him with her bible because she thought he was the bank robber still masquerading as the preacher. Little did she know that the new Reverend had arrived on the stage only an hour before…”

 

Johnny slapped the lines down a little harder, making the horses pick up the pace. The oak trees lining the road stretched bare branches into the wind, creaking like old bones. Morro Coyo would be in sight as soon as they rounded the bend.

 

“… distant relation of Agatha Conway, and no one saw that coming!”

 

He tried harder to pay attention. “Agatha Conway. Seems I heard of her. She’s that friend of Murdoch’s?”

 

“A good friend. She’s a widow. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon. Murdoch knew her late husband since they settled in this valley.”

 

“And she’s the one that goes around bashing preachers with bibles?”

 

“What? You haven’t been listening properly.”

 

“Sure, I have. There’s just a lot of names for me to remember, is all.”

 

He only noticed she’d gone quiet again when they turned into Morro Coyo. The horses knew where to go, so he could study her some out the corner of his eye. She had this sad look on her face, her gaze fixed toward town, but blank like she wasn’t seeing it. Scott had warned him that this might happen.

 

“Hey.” He bumped her shoulder. “You okay?”

 

“Hmm? Yes, I’m fine.” She came back to the here and now with a smile as watery as her eyes. “Stop the buckboard just over there, and we’ll take the order in. If señora Vega’s son is working today, then I’ll leave the blanket with him. If not, then I’ll go to see her while you load up the wagon.”

 

“Yes, Miss Teresa.” It was tough to not salute as he pulled the brake outside Baldemero’s store. Teresa wasn’t waiting for him to help her down or anything, she was waving a list and asking about a Diego as she hurried through the doors.

 

He took his time before going in; watering the horses, casting a lazy gaze over the town. There must be a stage due around now, ‘cause the town sure seemed busy. Señora Mendez’s café looked fit to burst from a lunchtime rush, the overhang looking bare in the daytime without her lanterns. Between rumbling wagons and the clip-clop of hooves came the odd twang of a guitar string from the saloon.

 

The storekeeper had got his window fixed, but the glass was already dusty and didn’t let in much light. The store was empty of people, the wooden floorboards making his spurs jingle as he stepped around a hodgepodge of displayed goods. He was walking by bags of flour, cans of beans, jars of dried green things, yet he could smell the leather and gun oil over herbs and spices. Saddles were on display at the rear to the right, with guns behind the counter above a shelf of ammunition.

 

Teresa and the storekeeper came through from the back. With both talking a mile a minute, he doubted they took in a darn word each other said. “Johnny,” Teresa said brightly, like they hadn’t been outside together a few minutes before. “Don Baldemero, this is Johnny Lancer.”

 

“Ah, señor. It is an honour to welcome the other son of Murdoch Lancer!”

 

The old man’s head bobbed like a panting dog, and ‘other son’ sure made him sound like the backup his mama had believed him to be. But he’d be polite, even if the storekeeper’s forced enthusiasm didn’t fool him, and it took every ounce of the man’s willpower not to keep looking at his gun.

 

Baldemero turned to Teresa. “Diego will be back un minuto, señorita. If you want, you wait out back?” It seems she wanted that ‘cause she sure disappeared quick enough, the parcel with her knitted blanket still tucked beneath her arm.

 

“This order I prepare now, señor. If you want, you wait outside?”

 

“I’ll be just fine here.” He flashed the man a grin and got a nervous smile back before the man was off, hurrying around his store, picking things up and packing them in a large wooden crate he’d set on the counter. With nothing else to do, Johnny ran his gaze over the stacked sacks of feed, and the assortment of tools hanging from hooks on the wall. Heck, everything a rancher might need was all jammed in this small space. He’d never been one to frequent general stores for anything much other than bandages and bullets, or the occasional bottle of tequila or whiskey to clean a wound or silence the little voice in his head that sometimes asked why one more dead man wasn’t one too many.

 

Bored already, he turned to find a space to lean between the half-packed crate, the weighing scales and the sprinkle of flour and sugar on the counter. He leafed through a pile of catalogues, and there, at the bottom of the pile, was a thin paper-backed book. ‘Beadle & Adams present Johnny Madrid: Outlaw’s Redemption.’ He eased it out. Who was the outlaw in this tale—him? Or was he the hero, saving the soul of an outlaw hell bent for nowhere? He was flicking to the last page to find out when Baldemero cleared his throat, his brown eyes wide, splotches of red, high on the apples of his cheeks.

 

Johnny followed the man’s gaze down to the book and back up again. “Oh. Did I lose your page?” 

 

Head shaking had replaced the head bobbing. “No, no, señor. All these I take from sale. This one I miss. Lo siento.”

 

“You mean to say you ain’t read this? I was all set on askin’ what I got up to this time.” Johnny tossed the dime novel back onto the counter and smirked at the man.

 

“I do not read them, señor. I take them from sale when I find you are the son of Mister Lancer.” Snatching up the book, Baldemero stashed it away and scuttled back to his work.

 

Huh. Maybe that was why Murdoch hadn’t sent him to the general store for anything before now. Maybe he knew all about them books. He glanced at their half-prepared order. Or more likely, before their talk yesterday, Murdoch hadn’t been sure Johnny Madrid could read the darn supply list. Reaching up, he grabbed a box of ammunition from the shelf and couldn’t resist giving the cardboard box a hard shake that rattled both the bullets and Baldemero in equal measure. “Add these to the order,” he called out as he dropped them in the box. “I’m always runnin’ low.”

 

He was drumming his fingers on the counter when Baldemero approached him again. “Señor, some items I cannot find. Please. Visit the saloon for refreshment. I tell Diego to load your buckboard and come get you when the order is complete. Sí?”

 

The man sure wanted rid of him, but sitting in the saloon with a cool beer sounded better than staying in the dry air of the store. He could hear Teresa chatting—she wouldn’t even notice he’d gone—so, nudging his hat back on his head, he nodded and sauntered out into the fresh afternoon.

 

The saloon had emptied some, and no one was playing the guitar; it sat propped next to the piano, which had its lid down, and a different barkeep paid him no mind as he served him a beer and carried on with his work. The one window was dirty, but he could still see through it, and he watched the street with half-hearted interest. The afternoon stage rolled in and rolled out. Gradually, the street emptied, and then two people caught his interest in all the wrong ways.

 

Damn. He shifted on the hard seat as the two gunfighters headed straight for this saloon. How long had it been since he’d last seen Matt Cody? Two years, maybe more? They rarely moved in the same circles, and Morro Coyo was one helluva small circle on a map.       

 

Johnny kept his gaze on his beer mug until Matt Cody’s shadow loomed over his table. Even then, he took his time, setting the mug down and slouching back so he wouldn’t have to look up too much to meet Cody’s eyes. The other gunfighter stayed outside. Johnny’s hand hovered near his gun.

 

“It’s been a while, Johnny Madrid. Mind if I sit a spell?”

 

“Sure.” He gestured to the empty chair, then picked up his drink. If he stayed quiet, Cody would fill the silence.

 

“Guess you’re wondering what brings me to Morro Coyo.” Cody slid into the seat, tossing his hat onto the table with a careless flick of his hand. 

 

The beer was already too warm. He should’ve gone with tequila.

 

“I heard there was plenty a’money to be made ‘round here before you changed sides an’ put a stop to it.”

 

“What d’you want, Cody? You and whoever that is.” Johnny put down his mug and angled his head toward the batwings. The other gunfighter lingered outside, smoking a cigarette. Stocky, with chubby cheeks, he looked like one of them chipmunks storing up food for the winter. 

 

“That’s Ed Rollins. We just done a job together up north a’ways. Frank Evers too. You remember Frank, don’t ya, Johnny?”

 

Yeah, he remembered Frank—bullets flying, the tang of blood in his mouth. “Hard to forget a man who tries to shoot you in the back.”

 

“Aw, you still sore ‘bout that? You know it’s just business in a fracas.”

 

“We were on the same side in that fracas, Cody.”

 

“Mistakes happen, the way them bullets zitted about. That little mistake aside, we made a good team on that McClusky job, didn’t we? You an’ Isham, me and Frank. Mebbe I’m just in town to catch up with an old friend.” Cody’s forced smile wasn’t wide enough for his black and crooked teeth.   

 

“We’ve never been friends.”

 

“Well, maybe we ain’t. But we got friends in common. How is Isham doin’ these days?”

 

“I ain’t seen Isham in a while. Hate to break it to ya, but he don’t like you either.”

 

Cody waved the insult away. “Now I think on it… you an’ Frank got friends in common, too. Least you did. I would ask how Day’s doin’, but we heard ‘bout his sad demise. One man who rode with Day right here to Morro Coyo ended up on the same job as us. He sure had a tale to tell.”

 

Johnny pushed the mug away. Already, he didn’t like where this talk was heading.

 

Cody was shaking his head. “Did you hafta string him to the fence, Madrid? That’s real undignified. Frank’s got a problem with that, what with Day being his kin an’ all.” 

 

If they thought he was the one who killed Pardee, then it needed to stay that way. “So, is Frank gonna join us, or is he standin’ behind me somewhere? Maybe I oughtta look over my shoulder in case he’s lining up another mistake?” Johnny leaned forward. “I know you enjoy runnin’ Frank’s mouth for him, but if Frank’s pissed because I killed Day, you tell him to talk to me directly. Face to face. If he’s got the guts.” 

 

“Well, he’s plannin’ on doing that when he gets here tomorrow. He had a few loose ends to tie up on that job of ours, but he’ll be along.”

 

“Well, I’ll be around.”

 

Cody nodded. “Just don’t keep Frank waitin’, Madrid. Else he just might come lookin’ for ya.” He scooped up his hat and stuck it on his head. ‘Ed’ was staring at them over the batwing doors. “Oh, an’ a bit of advice—we saw you arrive in town with that gal. If ya let Frank put it to that pretty little thing, he might be willin’—”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Johnny’s grip tightened on the Colt beneath the table. His gaze locked onto Cody’s, the gunfighter’s eyes widening as he caught, too late, the movement of Johnny’s right arm. Being the professional he was, Cody would’ve heard the hammer click beneath the table, even in a crowded saloon.

 

Cody shut up.

 

He stared Cody down and let the seconds pass: twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

 

Palms up, Cody’s hands drifted away from his body. “Whoa. Easy. I’m just messin’. Had no idea she was your woman.”

 

“I don’t like that kinda talk. It’s likely to get you my bullet in what little balls you have. Then it’ll be me sending word to Frank ‘bout your ‘demise’.” He stood then and holstered his gun. Ed wasn’t peering over the doors anymore. “Be sure to tell your friends that.” He’d turned to leave when Cody’s bitter voice stopped him.

 

“See ya tomorrow, Madrid. In the meantime, watch your back. The gal’s too.”

 

He didn’t bother answering, just shoved the saloon doors open. Ed was nowhere to be seen.

 

Shit.

 

It wasn’t easy to stroll toward Baldemero’s store, braced for another bullet from behind. Frank was a damn good gunfighter when he wasn’t trying to shoot you in the back. He was also an unpredictable sonofabitch.

 

And just ‘cause he’d never heard of Ed Rollins before today, didn’t mean he could overlook him as a threat. Maybe it made him more of one. The urge to run across the street, grab Teresa, and bundle her back to Lancer where he could keep her safe, was damn hard to resist.

 

Goddammit. He shoulda killed Evers two years ago when he tried to put a bullet in his back. He would’ve done if Frank had admitted it. Only Frank hadn’t admitted to a damn thing, holding his hands up in front of everyone and insisting that they were on the same side, so why would he pull a low-down dirty stunt like that? Hell, he even convinced Isham of his innocence. With that job over, and them all going their separate ways, Johnny’d let it go. He might’ve known it’d come back to bite him in the ass.

 

Still, better his ass than Scott’s. If Frank found out Scott was the one who killed Pardee, then it would be Scott he’d be gunning for.

 

The Lancer buckboard looked all loaded, so why wasn’t Teresa outside ready to go, and why hadn’t this Diego fella come to fetch him? A couple of yellow-haired ranch hands were loading another buckboard outside the store, strapping down crates and sacks, thin rolled up cigarettes dangling out their mouths. Neither of them looked like their names would be Diego.

 

He glanced behind him, but there was no Cody coming out of the saloon and still no sign of Ed. Where the hell was Teresa? A wagon rumbled past, kicking up dirt; gritty and dry. He wiped his face and squinted, scanning the dusty street. She wasn’t there; she wasn’t in the store, and a quick check with Baldemero confirmed she wasn’t out back. The last the storekeeper knew; she was with Diego, loading up.

 

Goddammit. 

 

Resetting the hat on his head, he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back, even on this grey, windy day. If something happened to Teresa… 

 

He spotted her then, toying with the ribbons of her bonnet as she fairly skipped along, talking to a boy around her age. The breath he let out almost sent the dust dancing. “Teresa! We need to go.”

 

Either she didn’t hear, or she wasn’t listening, ‘cause she sure had her eyes fixed on the dark-haired kid. They’d stopped walking now, and the boy was brushing his fingers down her arm, moving close to whisper in her ear while she giggled.

 

“Teresa.”

 

She’d heard him that time, but it sure seemed a wrench for her to turn and acknowledge him.

 

“In a minute, Johnny. Don’t fuss.”

 

Don’t fuss? Jesus. He reached her side. “Not in a minute. Now.”

 

She frowned. “Well, I’ll remember my manners, Johnny, even if you don’t remember yours.” The boy smirked at that. He had dark eyes full of mischief and a real cocky grin. “Diego, I’d like you to meet Johnny Lancer, Murdoch’s son. Johnny, Diego is—”

 

“Needing a lesson in keeping his hands to hisself?” Johnny pointed to Teresa’s arm. The boy snatched his hand back, and Teresa’s mouth fell open.

 

“Oh, my gosh, Johnny. No. Diego is Cipriano’s nephew.” She studied him, her blue eyes searching. “Is something wrong? Has something happened?”

 

He turned his head away, because this wouldn’t be the first time Teresa saw more than he wanted her to. Cody had reappeared in the saloon’s doorway, hanging over the batwing doors with a beer mug in his hand. Still no sign of Ed. He grabbed Teresa’s sleeve. “Nothing’s happened. I just don’t care whose nephew he is. C’mon, let’s go.”

 

Teresa’s cheeks turned pink, and she yanked herself free. “Then what’s gotten into you? I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

 

Madre de Dios. Cody was grinning at him now. Ed was somewhere. He didn’t have the patience for this, but he tried real hard to keep his voice even, so as not to scare her. “Honey, you either walk to the buckboard or go over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Either way, we’re leaving now.”

 

Teresa gaped at him. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

 

“Señor Lancer…” Diego began, but Johnny shot him a glare.

 

“Get lost, or I’ll tell your uncle ‘bout you getting handsy with Teresa. She’s just a little kid.”

 

“Johnny!” Teresa’s voice squeaked higher than a wagon wheel due for oiling. 

 

He eyeballed Diego until the kid backed off, and then he snatched Teresa up by the wrist, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to bring her tight to his side, tugging her along. She struggled to match his stride, hissing at him to let her go, but there wasn’t a darn thing she could do about it. Oh boy, she seethed as he gave her some firm encouragement up onto the buckboard. Her face had gotten all red, her lips flapping like too many words wanted to get out at once. But hell, he’d deal with the fallout later, once they were safely home.

 

He could send her alone and stay here to finish this, only he wasn’t sure yet what he’d be finishing, or what he’d be risking sending Teresa by herself. Where was Ed?

 

There. Ed was coming out of that alley beside the saloon, his gaze travelling down the street. Not wanting either man to see him in any kind of rush, Johnny turned the buckboard in a lazy circle before setting the horses to a gentle trot out of town.

 

Only once they’d turned the bend in the road did he click his tongue and urge the team forward, setting a brisk pace until he could shake the feeling of their eyes on his back; watching, waiting. On either side of the road, the oak trees crowded the buckboard, providing too many shady places for someone to wait.

 

Beside him, Teresa sat rigid but trembling, her fists unclenching every so often to wipe at her face. Either some grit had gotten in her eyes from the speed they were travelling, or she was crying. Goddamn it. After another couple of miles, the trees thinned out, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Teresa was yet to speak, but she was still sniffling. He tried fishing his bandana out his pocket, no simple task sitting down. Finally, he got it out and offered it to her.

She took it without a word. Dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose before screwing it up in her fist. “Johnny,” she said finally, her voice wavering. “I’m going to give you one chance to tell me what that was about.”

 

Dang. She must’ve spent a lotta time ‘round Murdoch growing up, ‘cause she sounded just like him, or at least what he figured his old man would sound like when they got back to the ranch and this all blew up in his face. Because it would. He knew that, sure as a gun. He had to give some explanation. But he couldn’t tell her about Cody or Frank. Not here. Not yet. Never? She’d tell Murdoch and Scott the moment her feet left the buckboard and then none of this would be in his hands. He needed time to think.

 

“Johnny?”

 

Stick as close to the truth as possible—isn’t that what he always tried to do? 

 

“That was about you making out like you needed to go to the store, when all ya really wanted to do was make eyes at the kid who works there.”

 

Her lips parted and if they weren’t still travelling home at a brisk pace, he’d hear her sharp intake of breath. It might not be the exact truth, but it sure weren’t much of a lie. The flush washing over her face proved it.

 

“Stop the buckboard.” She dug her elbow into his ribs. “I said, stop the buckboard, Johnny.”

 

“Whoa!” He slowed the horses, but she jumped down before they came to a halt, stomping down the road. What in tarnation was she doing—walking home?

 

He got the buckboard going again, but she had no intention of climbing back on. She stuck to the road’s edge and kept marching.

 

He couldn’t get the horses to match her stride, but even if he could, the wheels would kick up dust and spray her dress, so he either had to stay in front or behind. Damn it. If she planned on keeping this up, then she’d need more than them silly little boots for the long trek ahead of her. Blowing out a breath of frustration, he sped right up, then stopped and jumped off the buckboard, leaning against the side of it with his arms folded until she reached him. Her gaze was stone hard. Maybe he shoulda come up with a different explanation. “Teresa. You gonna listen to me?”

 

Nope, she wasn’t. Instead of stopping, she veered off, hitched her dress above the ankle, and hopped across the shallow ditch that ran alongside the road, squeezing through a gap in the trees.

 

Dammit. He could leave her. She’d know the way back home better than he did; maybe she was taking a shortcut or something. But daylight headed in one direction at this time of afternoon, and already the trees’ shadows painted the whole darn road. Smacking his hand against the side of the buckboard, he wiped the dust down his pants and followed her.

 

Behind the trees ran a fence line, but even in her dress, Teresa had climbed it, her progress slower on the other side, boots likely sinking in the field’s soft grass. Like hell would he clamber over fences after her. He folded his arms on the scuffed rail. “So, you’re just going off by yourself, all the way back to Lancer, huh?” 

 

Yep, seemed she was. He didn’t even get a glance over her shoulder.

 

Dios. He thumped the rail. How was this his life now? His head was aching, storm clouds gathering behind his eyes. The adrenaline from his meeting with Cody was no longer breathing fire through his veins, and at any other time, this’d be the part where he’d see things with a cool head: think, plan. Instead, what the hell was he doing? Clambering over a damn fence chasing a stupid girl who had no clue of the trouble she was putting him to. No clue what could be at stake.

 

As he landed in the pasture, his boot heels squelched in the mud. Damn it to hell. His temper stirred. “Teresa!” 

 

She whirled around to glare at him.

 

“Get back to the buckboard and I’ll explain.”

 

“Explain what? Why you’ve suddenly started treating me like some pesky child you have to babysit?”    

 

“That ain’t it. I needed to—”

 

“Get me away from Diego? Oh, you made that crystal clear. But I’ve known him far longer than you, and he’s never treated me like you just did. You completely humiliated me.”

 

“Oh, c’mon. I didn’t.”

 

“What else would you call it? Diego must think…” She closed her eyes, her dress swishing in the wind. “He’ll think I’m such a baby. You told him I was a little kid.” Her voice cracked like she was gonna cry again. Hell. He’d sure jumped in the fire with this one, but how was he supposed to know she’d overreact like this? “How could you do that to me? Scott would never—”

 

“I ain’t Scott.”

 

She scoffed and swiped at her cheeks.

 

“Come back to the buckboard, Teresa. Now.” He’d never been much good at telling women what to do, or teenage girls, it turned out. If she refused, was there a way to convince Murdoch that threatening to shoot her was a necessary action? Probably not. “You know what, fine. Go.” He threw his hands up. “I’ll just stand here and see how long it takes ‘fore you sink like a dumb heifer. An’ if you think I’m hauling your skinny backside outta the mud, you got another—”

 

Well, that was easier than expected. His warning musta worked ‘cause she’d turned and was striding back, her boots making a sucking noise with every step. Only she didn’t pass by. She stopped right next to him, and—Jesus!—slapped his face. It only hurt a little—she had nothing on his mama—but she didn’t seem to give a damn about what his reaction might be as she was already storming off, snapping out, “I am not a dumb heifer!” as she climbed the fence back toward the road.

 

“That isn’t what I said,” he ground out, a hot breath escaping between his clenched teeth. But he was talking to himself because all he could see of Teresa was a slip of yellow as she ducked back through the treeline. By the time he’d done the same, the lines were already smacking horseflesh, and as he hopped over the ditch onto the road, the buckboard was picking up speed, the brown ribbons of Teresa’s bonnet streaming behind her, and their order from Baldemero bouncing around in the back.

 

***TBC***