The Last Chance Ranch (26 page)

As she watched, a stray tomcat wandered through the yard, a cat as big, in his own way, as the man who crouched to call him.

“Good luck,” Maggie said. The cat had been mistreated at some point, then left behind to fend for itself. It wandered the streets, slept on convenient porch swings, accepted food when it was offered but disdained human touch.

“What a scruffy cat,” commented Anna.

“I feel sorry for him,” Maggie said, and smiled, for in spite of Joel’s cajoling, the black-and-white cat veered off to the left and plopped down in a patch of grassy sunlight. Joel stared at him for a moment, then stood and went back into his house.

A minute later, he emerged with a can of tuna. He carried it toward the cat, talking and approaching slowly. A few feet away, he put the can down and backed off to squat nearby.

The cat was antisocial but far from stupid. As if expecting a blow at any minute, he moved toward the can, keeping an eye on Joel, who continued to talk to the animal but didn’t move. It ate with the kind of desperation born of long-term hunger, gobbling as quickly as he could.

“That’s kinda sweet,” Anna said.

Maggie nodded. “He seems like a nice person—works with eagles and hawks, he said.”

Anna lifted an eyebrow teasingly. “More than just nice,” she teased. Her laugh was surprisingly ribald and bold, coming from the mouth of such a refined-looking woman.

“Come on away from the window, Gram,” Maggie said dryly. “We have to watch your blood pressure.”

“Oh,” Anna said, disappointment thick in her words. “The cat ran off, got scared.”

Maggie glanced back out. Joel hadn’t moved and he watched the departing cat with a pensive expression on his face. She looked at her grandmother. “I have to admit he’s good-looking.”

“Now
you
come on away from the window,” Anna said. “Don’t want your blood pressure going up.”

“Oh, please,” Maggie protested, and laughed as she took her chair. “Men are like flowers, strictly for admiring.”

Anna halted in the center of the kitchen, hands on her hips. Maggie thought her grandmother was about to offer some proverbial injunction about the comforts of a husband in old age. Instead, she let go of another ripe laugh. “If you think looking at a man like that is enough, you’ve been working too hard.”

Maggie rolled her eyes and picked up the bear claw. “Forget it, Gram. I’m not interested. Men are terrific for about six months, then you have start picking up socks and changing the channel so they can watch their ball games.” She wrinkled her nose. “And they all want you to cook. Ugh.” With a grin, she added, “Sharon calls it PMS—Permanent Male Syndrome.”

Anna nodded appreciatively, her cornflower eyes sparkling. Then she patted her white collar into place. “The right man can make it all worthwhile.”

“Hmm…” Maggie murmured. As she focused on the flavor of brown sugar and pecans, she remembered the way Joel had described a prairie falcon in his resonant voice, the way he had searched for a word to describe the birds he worked with.

She heard his voice utter the word again.
Magnificent.

Resolutely, she shut it out. “What else did my mother have to say this morning?”

View More
(from Kindle)

View More
(from Kindle App)

See all books
at BarbaraSamuel.com

(Excerpt)

by
Barbara Samuel

Prologue

I
t wasn’t a big river. Mainly it ran sleepily and quietly through a sparsely populated stretch of farmland in east Texas. Fishermen angled for the catfish skimming its depths; young boys stripped and skinny-dipped in its pools; lovers picnicked on its banks.

Only a handful of old-timers remembered the old name for the sleepy river — a name murmured in hushed voices as stories were told of her power.

Jezebel.

Not the Jezebel River. Just Jezebel, a name reserved for women of lusty beauty and uncertain virtue.
Jezebel
.

There had only been one occasion in recent memory when Jezebel had awakened, like an aging courtesan, to remind those around her of the power she could wield. Only one life was lost that night, and as if placated by the sacrifice, Jezebel settled back into her sleep.

But the old-timers knew it was only a matter of time until she awakened once again to flash her eyes and spread her skirts.

Only a matter of time.

Chapter 1

N
ot even hell could be so dark. His car headlights poked white fingers into the heavy rain, barely penetrating. The wiper blades sluiced the water away at a furious pace. It wasn’t enough. Only square inches of the windshield were clear at any instant — as soon as the blades slogged away the rain, more fell to blur his vision once again.

He’d slowed to twenty on the back country road and was no longer intimately familiar with the twists of blacktop and the tiny bridges that spanned dozens of creeks. His fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. He hunched as far forward in his seat as he could go, trying vainly to see.

Storm warnings had been broadcast on the radio, of course. But he’d grown up in these thick woods, amid the floods and endless early-summer rains. He knew the television and radio people were prone to exaggeration. It sold papers and commercial time.

The car slid on the road, its tires unable to keep a grip on the pavement. Eric swore as he fought for control. It made sense to ignore the news people, but he probably ought to have listened to the boy in grease-stained overalls at the gas station twenty miles back.

But there was his pride to consider. Nothing scared him like driving in the rain, in the dark. A night like this had once shattered his life, and he knew instinctively that he would be truly lost if he let the fear overtake him tonight.

Doggedly, he kept driving. A green sign with reflective white letters flashed in front of his lights. The words blurred before Eric could read them, but he knew what the sign said: Gideon, 5 miles. Almost there. With the back of his wrist, he wiped the sweat from his brow. For once in his life, he wished he’d paid attention — he’d have been a whole lot better off staying overnight in a motel in the last town. He sure as hell couldn’t do much for his sister if he drowned out here.

His headlights picked out a wash of water pouring over a bridge just ahead. A new row of sweat beads broke out on his upper lip and he eased his foot from the accelerator. Sucking in his breath, he touched the brake. Easy, he told himself. His weakened fingers, slick with sweat, slid on the hard, plastic steering wheel.

In spite of his care, the car hit the water with a hollow sounding
thunk
.
Easy now
. It wasn’t the first creek he’d forded on this nightmarish trip. Every little trickle in the county was brimming over tonight.

But this one had more than bubbled over. Eric saw the nearby pond with which the stream had mated, and the offspring of their union looked like an inland sea. Through the side window of the car, he saw an unbroken span of water reflecting the oddly misplaced light of a farmer’s barn.

The engine spluttered and coughed. Died. He slammed his good hand against the dash. When the car swayed under the force of the water that rose over its fenders, fear squeezed his belly hard. No time to brood.

He reached over the back of the seat, grabbing the heavy canvas backpack that held most of his earthly goods. Next to it was a guitar in a black case. He hesitated, fingers curled around the slim, plastic handle. A shiver of water shook the car.

He let go. It was no good to him anymore, anyway. It took a mighty heave to get the door open and then the water nearly knocked him down. Another flash of adrenaline sizzled over his nerves. Falling rain soaked his head and body in seconds. Shifting the backpack on his shoulders, he sloshed forward, head down. A big, broken tree branch swirled by him on the current.

Scared, man?

Damned right, he answered himself, putting one foot determinedly in front of the other. As he gained the other side of the bridge, the water gradually receded until it just covered the bottoms of his feet.

The little triumph pleased him. Only five miles to Gideon, to his sister, the only person in the world who mattered to him. And she needed him. It was bound to be easier to get to her on foot than in the car. So he ignored the beckoning lights of the farmhouse set back in the heavy trees and pushed onward into the thick, rainy darkness.

He trudged a mile. Two. He lost track. He crossed one stream, sloshing through water up to his knees, and when he got to the other side, he found the stream came with him, up to his ankles.

He thought about going back to the farmhouse, shook his head, and pushed on.

One foot in front of the other. Water obscured the road, making it hard to keep his bearings. He paused once to peer into the darkness, trying to mark familiar spots. There were none.

He reached into his backpack for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and slugged back a considerable mouthful. It warmed his chilled insides, calmed his racing heart. Thus fortified, he replaced the bottle, wiped water from his eyes and started out again. Not far now.

* * *

Celia Moon was making popcorn when the lights suddenly failed. For several hours she’d been trying to resist food — since the rains had set in several days ago, her main activity had been eating. But the pervasive thought of butter and salt and fluffy white corn had proved impossible to resist.

The sudden failure of the lights seemed like a scolding from on high — but not even heaven could make her quit now. There was enough heat left in the electric burner to finish the popping. The butter was already melted and the bowl was ready. If she had to sit alone in the gloomy darkness of the old farmhouse, reading by candlelight, at least she’d have some buttered popcorn to comfort herself with.

Working easily in the dark, she pulled the bowl over as the bubbling sound of exploding kernels slowed, then lifted the heavy pan from the stove and aimed as well as she could. There would doubtless be popcorn strewn all over the table in the morning, but since she lived alone, what did it really matter?

She did need a light to pour the butter. There were candles in a drawer by the sink and Celia lit one. A piney scent rose from the plump green candle and mixed with the smell of hot popcorn.

The whole elaborate ritual was designed to be a distraction from the endless pattering of the rain on the roof and windows. Endless. “A hurricane caught in a holding pattern over the Gulf,” they had said on the news. Rain was forecast for tomorrow as well.

It was depressing. She’d been stuck inside the house for days, cleaning like a madwoman out of boredom when she should have been planting her first garden. A salad garden to start with, scallions and radishes and lettuce. Collards, maybe. Definitely popcorn. Her grandmother had always grown popcorn, sending big bags of it every fall to Celia in Brussels or Paris or Berlin, wherever her parents’ travels had taken them.

A sudden, urgent pounding on the front door crashed into the rain-framed silence. Celia started, sending butter spilling over the whole table. She scowled at the mess. The knock sounded again, louder this time.

Who in the world would be out on such a night? She headed for the door, shaking her head, then realized she couldn’t see anything without her candle and went back for it. The pounding rattled through the room again.

“I’m coming,” she muttered under her breath. She grabbed a handful of popcorn as she picked up the candle, then ran lightly toward the door, her candle flame bobbing with her steps.

She flung open the door — and nearly flung it just as quickly closed.

The man on the porch was soaking wet. No, not just soaking. Dripping. Awash. Streams flowed from the pack on his shoulders and from his hair. A cut on his lip was bleeding profusely, and he was panting. “I — got — stranded,” he managed to say, and stumbled forward, catching himself on the doorjamb.

Celia jumped back, alarmed. It was impossible to see much about him by the light of her single candle, but he was big. A stranger. He also smelled distinctly of whiskey.

He straightened and licked his lips. “I was trying to get to town, but that last creek nearly took me with it.”

Celia hesitated a moment more — measuring the weight of the storm against the big man who obviously wanted shelter. His voice, ragged and hoarse, was definitely local, with a certain, unmistakable cadence that marked him as a native. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him, but that didn’t mean much. She’d only been in town a few months, and small as it was, Gideon played county seat to a lot of farms.

She stepped back. “My grandmother would never forgive me for turning away a stranger in trouble. Come on in.”

The relief on his face, even in the dark, was unmistakable. “Much obliged. I won’t be any trouble.”

“Wet as you are, I’ll be lucky if you don’t die of pneumonia before morning.” She sized him up, thinking quickly. “Stay right there. I’ll get you something dry to put on.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She headed for the back room, leaving the candle for him. He hovered near the door.

There wasn’t much to choose from, but Celia found an old pair of overalls of her grandfather’s and a shirt she was sure would be too small. Might not fit well, but it would be better than freezing to death.

The stranger still stood right by the door when she returned. A puddle had formed under his feet. His outer garment, a long vinyl poncho, had been shed, and the big pack rested against the wall.

The lights flashed on again, so suddenly they startled Celia. In the blazing, unexpected illumination, she stared at the man by the door. It was only by sheer force of will that she kept her mouth from dropping open. Men like this never walked into her quiet life. They crossed movie screens and album covers; they rode bucking horses in rodeos and raced cars in the Indy.

They didn’t appear on her porch in rural Texas in the middle of a rainstorm.

His hair was black as sin and already curling around his neck and ears. The face was broad and dark, with high cheekbones and heavy brows over thick-lashed eyes. Amid all the masculine angles and jutting corners, his mouth was uncommon and compelling, even with a bloody cut obscuring it. The lower lip was full, sensual; the upper cut into an exquisite firm line.